Phoenix Ascending
by Soz
Summary: Sequel to the Third Camp. 5th year fic where Harry goes back in time to Ancient Rome, fighting Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy with the aid of the usual suspects, swashbuckling desert swordsmen and Lupin's evil twin. Toga not included.
1. Frostbite

Phoenix Ascending Prologue-- Frostbite

As the night dropped its star-studded veil, the boy with the dark hair ran across the frozen plane. The wind whipped wildly through his already tousled hair, throwing it this way and that as his feet hit the frozen ground in a pounding rhythm dissonant from the frantic beatings of his heart. He ran like a man possessed, and in many ways, he was. 

Though it was unplottable, the tiny circle of stones on the horizon grew into a ring of huge monoliths no more than a few paces from the boy. And then, ringing clearer than his own tortured memories, came the echoes…

We are gathered here today to mourn the passing of a member of our community, too often misunderstood…

Out of nowhere, the dementors appeared, their black robes barely visible in the half-light of midwinter dusk. The boy felt the all-too-familiar wave of cold wash over him along with the all-too familiar words, an echo of death played out once again in his ears. 

A shrill scream cut through his senses-- _Harry! No!_

The boy shook his head, trying desperately to free himself from the snare of the past, the echoes from the dementors. 

__

He's dead… oh god… he's dead…

The ring of black robed figures closed in around him, their suffocating presence weighing on him, beating him down, and bringing him to his knees… 

__

He's dead… oh god… he's dead… _dead… dead…_

In the shadow of inanimate ring of stones, they surrounded the boy, drawing him closer and closer into their stranglehold. One of the horrible black robed figures reached up a light spindly hand, as white as death's pallor, and ever so gently took a hold of his hood, pulling it back. "Hello Harry," Lord Voldemort smiled. 


	2. Homecomings

PHOENIX ASCENDING I-- Homecomings  
  
  
----  
  
  
Albus--   
Due to recent developments involving the dark arts, I can no longer attempt to postpone the inevitable. Voldemort is back after all, and we must make every attempt to rally our forces and withstand his rising power.   
Cornelius.  
  
Fudge stared at the letter, leaning so close that the tip of his nose was marked purple by the still-wet ink. Brows knitting, he lent back and crumpled the letter into a ball, tossing it into the roaring fire in the grate behind him. Something about the letter was not right... something didn't fit, but try as he might, he couldn't put his finger one it. Tommyrot Cornelius old chap, his conscience whispered peevishly, You're too damn proud for your own good. You could never admit you were wrong, and you aren't about to start now.   
  
"Cornelius Fudge." The minister tensed as he heard his door slam behind him. Slowly, fearfully, he turned around. "Kryptos," A blast of green light whisked past his ear, singing his graying hair and wrapping itself around his front door, pulsating angrily. He stumbled clumsily out of his plush recliner and took a step towards the light. It lashed forward like a sentient entity to snap out his outstretched fingers, charring them black. With a cry Fudge raised his hand to his mouth, trying to suck out the pain like a toddler who put his hand on the kitchen stove. "That's to ensure no one gets in... or out," a cold voice hissed in his ear. Dreading and somehow knowing what he would see, Fudge turned around. "Boo." Voldemort smiled, the bone-white skin tensing over his jawbones in an unfamiliar expression. His red eyes glinted ominously in the green light of his Kryptos spell. "The greatest trick the devil ever played was convincing the world he didn't exist."   
  
Fudge gaped, trying to save himself from collapsing at the knees due to the fear that coursed through him like molten steel. Wetting his dry lips he attempted to speak, "The devil? You have lofty aspirations."   
  
"Aspirations?" Voldemort would have raised an eyebrow in scorn if his pale face had possessed any. "Aspirations on the brink of reality."   
  
Fudge could feel his heart pound fiercely in his breast as the tall thin man cloaked in black took a step towards him. "What do you presume by coming here?" he stammered as the putrescent stench that lurked around Voldemort like a cloak engulfed his senses.   
  
"Oh Mr. Fudge," Voldemort shook his head while clucking his tongue in mock pity. "Dear, dear Mr. Fudge. You know very well what I presume to do."   
  
"Albus will--" Fudge took a step backwards, nearly tripping over his recliner as his words failed him.   
  
"Albus will what?" Voldemort spat contemptuously. "Spout morals at me? I fear no one, Mr. Fudge."   
  
"Harry Potter--"   
  
"Is a fourteen year old child," Voldemort sneered, placing his skeletal hand on Fudges shoulder. The minister felt a wave of revulsion creep over him at that touch. "I could torture you, you do know that."   
  
Fudge felt his mouth go dry as his knees gave way, "Please, I'm the Minister of Magic--"   
  
"But," Voldemort continued, a faint smile of triumph stretched across his gaunt features as his red eyes slitted into two points of sinister apathy. "You were always a bumbling fool. I see this as more of a public service than any sort of personal victory. Besides," Voldemort bent down, his slit of a mouth only a handbreadth away from Fudge's terrified visage. "I still have a score to settle with my little Lucifer."   
"You're going to kill me," Fudge stammered, his heart beating wildly into a crescendo of fear and terror. Then it stopped.   
  
"Avada Kedrava."   
  
  
----  
  
  
Voldemort bent down, silently inspecting his handiwork. Fudge lay on his living room floor, his limp body as pale as the egg-white carpet beneath him. He couldn't help but smile, after long last, Cornelius Fudge was dead. Yet another fly had met its end in his all-encompassing web.   
  
It had been decades since the name Fudge had had any relevance whatsoever to him. And now, their troublesome line was finally eliminated, eradicated, gone.   
  
I'll see you in hell.  
  
Her words still echoed in his ears. But they were but words, and words in vain. He had won this battle.   
  
He always won.   
  
A final fitting touch wormed its way into his mind, the injustice that would cause her to roll over in her grave. He couldn't help but smile at the irony, because professionally, it was something she would have rather enjoyed.   
  
Reaching into the pocket of his robes, Voldemort pulled out a silver dagger. Looted from the chamber of secrets, it was a blade enchanted to never loose its sharpness with twin snakes twined around the hilt, ready and rearing to strike. Unbuttoning the minister's awful pinstriped dress robes, Voldemort dug the dagger into his oversized paunch, fascinated as the still-warm blood welled up to the cut, a tiny line of red along the bitter white of Fudge's dead body.   
  
Dipping his pure white fingers into the blood, Voldemort began to write.   
  
  
----  
  
  
With a sigh, he took down the last photograph.   
  
Sacked. Fired. Got the boot.   
  
However you put it, it all amounted to one thing that made the goofy, smiling, waving photographs tossed haphazardly into a ratty cardboard box all the more annoying. He was out of a job. The twenty-odd photographs in the box all gave a simultaneous jubilant wave. Glaring at them, he gave the box a huge kick, which of course only caused them to wave harder.   
  
Taking one last glance around his pint-sized excuse for an office, his eyes fell on an official looking piece of parchment, the last piece of paper left on his desk. That piece of parchment was of the devil. Picking it up with as much zest as one might approach a rabid hippogriff, he read it for the umpteenth time that morning  
  
Dear Mr. Cox,   
We regret to inform you that due to recent publications penned by yourself that we no longer have a place for you here at the Daily Prophet (established 1692 A.D.). Aside from slandering several upstanding members of the wizarding community, including the Prophet's own Ms. Rita Skeeter, misleading the public, and lying outright, you have committed no noteworthy offenses.   
Please do not use us as a reference.   
Sgd., Ptolemy Papscrew (executive editor).  
  
"Cox," a tall blond figure slunk into his cubicle.   
  
"Skeeter," he looked up from the letter, almost blinded by her vibrant magenta dress robes "Come to gloat?"   
  
She smiled at him over the top of her rhinestone encrusted horn-rimmed glasses. "Oh Gabriel, don't you think we should put all of that behind us?"   
  
"Behind us my ass," he growled. "Do you honestly think people believe your trash on Dumbledore being bent on world domination?"   
  
She gave a patronizing chuckle, "People believe what they want to hear. And they don't want to hear that Voldemort is back."   
  
"He is," Gabriel insisted firmly, gripping the sides of his cardboard box with both hands.   
  
Skeeter gave him an amused look, "Of course Cox," she sneered sarcastically, "Of course."   
  
He pulled out his wand, "Wingardium Levosia," the box full of photographs, papers and other general office trash floated a few feet into the air. "Come on Skeeter, you got me fired, the least you can do is stop blocking the door."   
  
"Actually it was your uncle that sent the letter to Papscrew demanding your removal from the staff." Skeeter smiled, "Though I did lodge a formal complaint. Speaking of your uncle--"   
  
"Do shut up and go away," he growled, his eyes smarting from her flourescent robes.   
  
Ignoring him, Skeeter continued. "Your uncle has been found dead in his home. Victim of the timeless Avada Kedrava."   
  
"What?" His box hit the floor with a clunk of broken picture frames as his concentration snapped. Skeeter smiled wickedly, always happy to have caused a stir. "The word LUCIFER was scrawled onto his chest in blood."   
  
"You're lying," he said flatly as her smile widened.   
  
"Mad-Eye Moody personally requested to be brought back from retirement to take the case," Skeeter said blithely. "Just thought you might like to know." Gabriel said nothing in response, only staring at the broken photographs in his broken box, still, despite all their recent abuse, waving furiously. "I'd lay low if I were you," Skeeter persisited, taking a step towards him.   
  
"Gabriel!" He looked up as Will, a copy editor, pushed his way past Skeeter and into the cubicle. "There's someone on the phone for you." He held out a tiny black block of plastic with brightly colored buttons all over it.   
  
"On the what?" Gabriel said as his mind, still smarting from Skeeter's news, drew a blank.   
  
"Some Muggle device for communication," Will answered.   
  
Skeeter gave a derogatory laugh, "Since when have we had a Muggle device for communication?"   
  
"Since the non-discrimination act on '91 required it," Will replied, still offering the black piece of plastic to Gabriel. "Just nobody's used it yet."   
  
Gabriel gave the phone a hesitant glance, "I just... talk into it?"   
  
"I guess so," Will smiled ruefully. "There's only one way to find out, eh?"   
  
"You're a help," Gabriel snapped, tentatively taking the piece of black plastic from Will's outstretched hand.   
  
"Who is it?"   
  
"Dunno," Will shrugged. "Some chick from Hong Kong."   
  
  
----  
  
  
"Murderer's Way? Sure, I'll tell you about Murderer's Way. Chic Café, smack dab in the middle of Hong Kong, it used to be a ratty old diner 'til it got bombed. The owner, slick chick, I'm telling' you, I think her name was Vix Su. So this Vix got mixed up with the mob and was taken in by the police for the murder of some upper-crust businessman, I think his name was Seiji, but don't quote me on that one. Anyway they brought her to trial for this Seiji's murder but ended up releasing her on lack of evidence. There was huge press coverage, it turned out that Seiji was a multi-billionaire and when money's involved you know how those reporters get. They can sniff scandal a mile away. It turned out that Seiji had willed most of his money to Vix's father, but since the father was comatose in the hospital (he had been for about two months at that time) it all passed to her. To this day, not one of us knows whether or not she went and did Seiji in. But where was I? Oh right... so where most self-respecting girls would have gone and moved out of town, this one didn't. Vix went and capitalized on her new celebrity, reopened her restaurant with the money from Seiji's will, and called it Murderer's Way. The place served nothing but steaks. At first people just came out of curiosity from the trial, but then they realized that the Hannibal's Texan hamburgers weren't half bad, and its been up, up and away ever since. If you go, I recommend the Bates Motel Blue Plate. Of course it's beef... what kind of a person do you take me for?"   
  
It was because of this rather alarming and somewhat overwhelming tirade that Maximilian Consuedo-Ponce III Esq., decided to brave the afore mentioned restaurant. He had heard of nothing else ever since his Merlin's Tour of the Wizarding Far East arrived in Hong Kong, and when asking his tour guide exactly what Murderer's Way was, he felt that nothing could keep him from its doors. It was a good thing that Maximilian was a wizard, and therefore not privy to the deeper meanings of the Bates Motel Blue Plate or Hannibal's Texan Burgers. If he had comprehended, he may not have attacked his Jaw's Favorite Jambalaya with such relish. And here our story begins, with Max bending over his Jambalaya, relaxing in a place far far away from home, responsibility, and anything remotely resembling a heating bill. He was sitting back in his chair, enjoying the Asian summer, engrossed in the Daily Prophet. It was a few days old, but the news was still hot, evidently Rita Skeeter had uncovered a new fiasco, involving Dumbledore, Sirius Black, and a werewolf. The front page story by one Gabriel Cox, denounced Skeeter's tale as pure tommyrot, and went on to state that Sirius Black was innocent, Voldemort had risen from the grave and the only way to survive the "rising storm" was to bind together as a community and fight. Max doubted that even half of the story was true but it defiantly made more exciting reading than The Wizards Guidebook to Birdwatching in the Greater Hong Kong Metropolitan Area. "More coffee?"   
  
Max blinked, suddenly roused from his engrossment with the scandals of the wizarding world. "Pardon?"   
  
"Coffee," his waitress snapped drolly, dangling the brimming silver pot dangerously close to his newspaper. "You know the brown stuff that people like to drink?"   
Max gave her what he hoped was a disapproving look, "Let me move my paper if you don't mind," he said, trying to wrestle the free edge of the Prophet out from under his coffee cup.   
  
"Fine by me," she replied, shifting her weight to the other foot. But as she did, a splash of coffee from the overflowing pitcher fell onto the table, missing Max's cup entirely and soaking through his paper. "I'm so sorry!" In confusion she dropped the pot, causing newly freed coffee to splatter all over the floor and onto the starched white of her uniform.   
  
Max could feel his face turning red in fury, "I would like to speak to the owner."   
  
The waitress gave him a lopsided smile, bending down to pick up the pitcher, "That could be arranged." She straightened up and picked up his paper, "How about we get you a new copy on us. What is this, The Daily Prophet?"   
  
Max felt his heart race, his day was getting worse by the second. "I'm afraid you couldn't buy that in a store. Just return it to me and--"   
  
But the waitress wasn't listening to a word he was saying. In all actuality, her face had gone from a pleasant peachy color to a few shades below stark white. "Remus Lupin and Sirius Black..."   
  
"What?" Max stood up in ill disguised fury, making a grab for the paper as she twisted out of his way. "I don't know what the meaning of this is..."  
  
"Sirius Black," the waitress looked up from the paper, her face still in an expression of shock. "Where is he?"   
  
Max gave a scowl, "If we knew that I daresay we could all sleep a little safer at night. May I please have my paper, young lady."   
  
"No," she replied flatly. Then to add insult to injury she began to mutter to herself. "Who wrote this... Gabriel Cox." Abruptly, the waitress turned to Max, "How can I contact the Daily Prophet?"  
  
"I'm afraid," he snapped, snatching the paper from her fingers, "that you wont be contacting anyone."   
  
"And I'm afraid that you are mistaken," she growled in reply, while swinging what was left of his Jaw's Favorite Jambalaya into his face.   
  
"Young Lady!" He screamed, as the restaurant came to halt and started, breathless at the two of them. "I don't know what the meaning of this is, but I would certainly like to speak with your owner!"   
  
The waitress grinned belligerently, "I am the owner." Without warning she snatched the paper out of his hand. "Have a nice day Mr. Consuedo-Ponce."   
  
His face dripping with Jambalaya Max gave a resigned sigh. He had never been one for conflict, and he felt, not for the first time in his life resigned to his inevitable fate as the loser. Besides, nothing remotely as exciting as this had ever happened on the Merlin's Tour of the Wizarding Far East, not even the petrified head of Sung Kao-Tzech-Zedong had come close. Imagine what kind of dinner conversation this could bring, so all in all, he reasoned to himself, he could begrudge a Prophet to the girl. "There's a telephone number on the back page," Max said with a definite droop in his voice.   
  
----  
  
  
Midnight dawned heavy on 12 Rivermede Road.   
  
Almost as heavy as a day thirteen years ago, a Halloween morning when he had awoken to find his world cleaved into tiny portions that try as he might, he could never, ever accept. That blood-soaked morning had shaped his life, for better or for worse, until death did him part.   
  
As the church bell began to toll twelve times, Remus Lupin contemplated.   
  
He had much to think on, and hardly any time to think it, watching the bite-sized sliver of moon through the tiny window, every painful inch of memory condensed into a single heartbeat.  
  
A single breath.  
  
A mere instant.  
  
Six tolls of the church bell, halfway to 12:01.   
  
Midnight was the witching hour, no irony intended, the hour when anything and everything was possible for wizards and muggles alike. Late at night the bridge to sleep grew crossable, with harsh dreams and memories harsher still waiting on the other side, ready to once more drift to the forefront of the slumbering psyche.   
  
Ten tolls of the church bell.  
  
Psyche. It had been more than a year since Hong Kong, since those five days halfway across the world that would echo is the eternity of his life. Wistfully, longingly, he reached into the pocket of his robes, where a well folded piece of newsprint had taken up permanent residence.   
  
Watch for me -- Vix.   
  
He was still watching.   
  
He was forever watching.   
  
The bell let out its twelfth tole with an angry cry. The without warning, one more ring broke into his reverie.   
  
A thirteenth tole.   
  
Remus stood up abruptly, caught unaware. The bell sounded again.   
  
It was the front door.   
  
Pulling himself away from the kitchen table, he took a tentative step into the hall, cringing when the floor creaked in protest. Slowly, his eyes locked on the oaken door he made his way down the entry hall, trying to ignore the wave of unplaced fear and untapped anticipation. Who was ringing his doorbell at midnight? Could his waiting be over?   
  
Ever so slowly, he took a hold of the brass door handle, its metal cold and alien to his touch. He swallowed heavily, trying to mentally quiet the pounding of his heart. Taking a deep breath, he swung the door open, and stared out into the blackness of the night.   
  
A hulking shadow blocked his view.   
  
As the shadow stepped into the light, he didn't even have to look at its illuminated features to know who it was. He saw that face every time he looked into the bathroom mirror.   
  
The shadow gave a long low chuckle, "Open up, little brother. I've come home."   
  
thanks to everyone that reviewed the last one (mwah to you all :O) ) and a special bouquet to Rowena Alana, for being the best beat reader a girl could ask for and just all around cool (if you haven't read her Vaya series or Unchained Melody do. Now. Before I set Orien on you). That may have been slightly confusing for those of you who haven't read Third Camp, Pas de Deux, or China Doll, you can go back and read and review or just skim the painless little summaries I have here:  
  
THIRD CAMP: takes place directly after GoF, through long involved and excruciating plot, Harry and Ron go to live with Sirius and Remus who are driven out of their house by a mob of angry reporters a short time after. It turns out that Rita Skeeter broke her promise to Hermione and wrote a tell-all saying that Sirius and Dumbledore were in cahoots to take over the world and follow in Voldemort's footsteps. Sirius escapes (barely) when he is warned by Hermione and Viktor Krum (who fly in from Bulgaria). It looks like Dumbledore and Remus are going to be arrested until Gabriel Cox (Cornelius Fudge's nephew) writes an article telling the events of PoA and GoF and that the wizarding world needs to band together to fight Voldemort. Fudge drafts a letter to Dumbledore about to make amends....  
  
PAS DE DEUX: Takes place in the early 70s, when Voldemort is making his rise to power. His first, and most loyal death eater is a serial murderer referred to as "Lucifer" after the angel of death. The wizarding world lives in constant fear of Lucifer who kills random people indiscriminativly. Assigned to Lucifer's case is Chita Ramone, an auror who is also engaged to Alastor (Mad-Eye, though he's not Mad-Eye yet) Moody. Alastor's best friend is a man named Sejanus Cox, who teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts. Sejanus's fiancé is Liv Fudge, Cornelius Fudge's ballet dancer sister. At the end, Sejanus accidently kills Chita, who attacks him, thinking he is Lucifer. Chita's death drives Alastor insane, and he begins to hunt Sejanus down with a manic passion. It turns out that Liv is Lucifer, and after leaving her son (Gabriel Cox of the Third Camp) with Cornelius, she tries to go turn herself in, because Sejanus is being held by the Ministry as Lucifer. Voldemort gets to her first and kills her, making it look as if Sejanus killed her. Alastor finds the bodies and watches in horror as Sejanus is sent to Azkaban. Ten years later, Alastor manages to get inside the prison and puts a knife through the back of his one time friend. Everyone, Moody included, believes that Sejanus is Lucifer.  
  
CHINA DOLL: Basically what happens in Sirius and Remus go to Hong Kong and meet a girl named Vix. (As you can see I'm tired of summarizing) She is the waitress that opened Murderer's Way. And this is Soz, signing off. Please Read and Review :O).   
  



	3. Resignations

PHOENIX ASCENDING II-- RESIGNATIONS

__

Blaaaaaaaarrrp!

It was halfway between the mating call of a banshee and the death wail of a manticore. Sirius had never heard anything like it before in his life. He sat up straight as a rod in bed, just about ready to follow the manticore's lead and keel over himself. But the noise didn't stop there, it continued, searing its way into something supposedly adjacent to a melody. And that was if you stretched it. 

Sirius got out of bed, wincing as he was serenaded by the noise. Opening the door gently, he tried to follow the horrendous sound through the house, praying that his eardrums would pull through and not burst before he got there. Stopping outside a deceitfully demure door, he reached out a tentative hand and pulled it open. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" 

The noise stopped in mid ear-splitting blaarp as Remus lowered a rusty out-of-tune trumpet from his lips, and turned to Sirius with a belligerent expression on his face. "Blowin' some notes," he said huskily, his face still locked in a grimace. 

"Yeah? Well I'll blow you some if you don't shut the hell up," Sirius snapped irritably, the anger borne of being woken up at four AM by his friend's Louis Armstrong impression. A not-misplaced alarm seized his heart as he looked over to the tattered bed to find it covered in old Charlie Parker, Lester Young, and Billie Holiday records. When his eyes rested upon Remus's ratty trumpet case, he felt himself grow weak in the knees. "You don't even play the trumpet," he said slowly, wetting his lips dried from fear. 

"I play the trumpet," Remus said, a low growl lodged in his throat. 

"You can't quite call it a trumpet. It's more like a Chinese torture device." Sirius said blithely, flashing his friend a grin that wasn't returned. 

Remus violently threw his rusty trumpet into the moth-eaten case. "What are you doing here?" he snapped. 

Sirius took a step backwards, unaccustomed to Moony's sudden ferocity. "Sorry to break it to you, old chap, but I live here." 

To his surprise, Remus broke into a huge drunken grin, "So he is gay." 

Sirius took a threatening step forward, "Who is gay?"

"It was a joke, asshole," Remus spat, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his robes. "Joke? You know, ha ha. Funny." 

"I'm rolling on the floor laughing," Sirius said dripping sarcasm, still trying desperately to defuse his volatile friend. 

"Wash my mouth out with soap while you're at it, Black," Remus said bitterly, gathering up all of the jazz records on his bed. "You've always hated me, anyway." 

Sirius's mind reeled as he tried to keep his anger in check and confusion at bay, "What are you talking about, Moony?"

"I'm not Moony," Remus replied, his gray eyes filled with malice. 

It was then that Sirius finally understood. "Romulus." 

----

"What the hell is he doing here?"

Remus looked up from the kitchen table to where Sirius stood in the doorway, his face white with anger. "You'll wake Harry and Ron," he said, turning away. 

Sirius took a few angry steps into the kitchen, "As if your brother hasn't already with his damn Louis Armstrong impression! What the hell is he doing here?" 

"I don't know," Remus replied, his voice dangerously level. 

"I thought he was dead!" Sirius exploded furiously. 

"Well I did too!" Remus lashed out, his calm facade finally shattering. "He disappeared off the face of the earth for fourteen years, it's not as if I've been expecting him, Sirius!" 

"When did he show?" Sirius said, his face still dark with anger. 

Remus sunk back into the kitchen chair, resigned. "About four hours ago, around midnight." 

Sirius pulled up the second chair and took a seat, "Is he clean?" 

"I don't know," Remus replied helplessly, opening his hands wide. 

Sirius gave him a piercing look, "Do you have any of it in the house?" 

Remus looked away before responding quietly. "In my trunk, for emergencies." 

Sirius smiled bitterly, "Well if it goes missing..." 

"It won't go missing." Remus turned to him fiercely. "For all we know, he could be gone tomorrow night. I doubt he'll stay long." 

With poise borne of bluntness, Sirius smirked. "You're just saying that." 

"I trust him," Remus said, his voice wavering slightly, betraying the lie. 

"Like a boggart's ass _I_ trust him," Sirius spat fervently. "And you trust him even less." Remus looked away, his stubborn silence betraying the truth in his friend's words. Refusing to respond, he turned his eyes to the window, where the crescent moon still hovered in the black night sky. "I'll take Harry and Ron to King's Cross toady," Sirius said, suddenly and abruptly changing the subject. 

"What?" Remus looked away from the window, his face lined with worry. 

"I'll take Harry and--"

"No," Remus waved his hand. "I heard you the first time." 

"And?" Sirius pressed. 

Remus shook his head in amazement, "Are you insane?" 

"Nah," Sirius begrudged Remus a smile, before his face grew serious once again. "Who else is going to take them?" 

"I would," Remus said, his face still confused. 

"You can't," Sirius responded quickly. 

"I appreciate the concern, Sirius," Remus said, getting up from his seat. "But considering you have an award on your head, I doubt that you taking Harry and Ron is the apt conclusion to this problem." 

"You can't go," Sirius said fervently, leaning forward. 

Remus's eyes narrowed suddenly, "What are you implying?" 

"I'm implying that I won't stay here alone," Sirius replied. 

"You wouldn't be alone," Remus said before laughing bitterly. "Or is that why you won't stay?" 

"You can't leave him here alone," Sirius yelled, throwing all tact to the wind. "That's obvious!"

"It's my house," Remus yelled angrily. "I can leave him here if I want!" 

"It's Vix's house!" Sirius bellowed. "And leaving me with him is almost as deadly as leaving him alone!" 

Remus shook his head scornfully, "I could--"

"You could NOT bring him with you," Sirius growled, reading his friend's thoughts. "Are you insane?" 

"It would be insane to let you take the boys to King's Cross!" Remus protested. "You're in hiding!" 

"Its better than leaving him alone," Sirius spat. 

Remus stood up, pushing his chair into the table so hard that it fell over. "It's better than letting you go kill yourself. I'll wake the boys, I'm going." Sirius for once had nothing to say, or maybe he just kept silent watching Remus storm out of the room and slam the door behind him. 

----

Again, they loomed before him, the standing stones, stoic and unseeing. The icy wind nipped at his legs, biting through his school robes, which were unsuited to the midwinter chill. Harry shivered, and waited. He did not have to wait long. Like specters half visible, they emerged from under the shadows of the monoliths, their cloaks rustling on the frozen turf. 

__

....Oh god, he's dead... dead... dead...

The dementors closed in once more, their breaths draining him of every ounce of soul, wrenching at his heart, tearing him inside out. Again, he fell to his knees, and once more a single black robed figure stepped out from the tourniquet of dementors and knelt next to Harry. The figure's hot breath scalded his cheek, his harsh tone cutting through the frigid air like a whip. "I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Lord of all names, and when I come, my Kingdom will know no end." The figure gave a soft chuckle, and ever so slowly, drew back his hood... Lord Voldemort laughed, his high pitched voice carrying through the monoliths over the frozen plane, borne by the frigid wind. Yet somehow, it never strayed from the hole in Harry's heart. 

"Harry!" He awoke with a start, one hand gripping his scar, and the other wrapped tightly into his bedcovers, the high merciless laugh still echoing in his ears. Professor Lupin stood over him, his hand on the light switch, "Its time to go to King's Cross." 

Harry took a deep breath, steadying himself. It was only a dream. It was always a dream. 

----

Harry was just fitting his trunk into the luggage rack, when he heard the compartment door open and slam close. 

"I heard you were staying with the werewolf, Potter," sneered a sardonic drawl he knew all too well. 

"So?" Harry turned around; trying to keep his voice level when faced with the slick smile of Draco Malfoy. 

"Sometime then I think it's sad you don't have any family," the blonde replied suavely, his smile never wavering. "Then I remember who I'm pitying." 

"Very funny, Malfoy," Harry sneered, closing the luggage rack a little too hard. 

"What next? Your girlfriend's a vampire?" Malfoy said, his flickering gray eyes radiating nothing but malice. "Oh I forgot, you're dating that buck-toothed mudblood." Hermione blushed and lowered her head in shame. 

Harry gritted his teeth; "I am not dating Hermione." 

"Who would?" Draco's silvery blonde hair flashed in the morning sunlight. "Except for half-blind apes of Quiddich stars who can even speak decent English." 

"Take that back, Malfoy," Harry said quietly, feeling his fists clench in anger. 

"Oh?" Malfoy taunted, delighted to have touched a nerve. "All buddy-buddy with Viktor Krum now?" 

"He's more of a descent person than you can ever hope to be," Harry replied, trying to ignore Draco's maddening stare. 

"And what about Diggory? Was he a descent person?" Draco sneered quietly. 

Harry froze, staring into Draco's cold fish eyes, as a memory too often repressed rose to the surface of his mind: a darkened graveyard, a harsh voice calling out the words _Avada Kedrava_ and a then, suddenly body falling, dead before it landed, spread-eagled in the grass.... With a roar Harry threw himself on to Malfoy, knocking him to the ground. Maybe it was the shock of Harry doing something so incredibly stupid, but Malfoy didn't cry out or reach for his wand. Instead, he sat up and grabbed a fistful of Harry's hair, pulling him down beside him and knocking out a pane of window glass in the process. Harry raised his fist, about to slam it into Malfoy's jaw when the door was jerked opened and both of them rolled out into the hallway. "Is there a problem?" The little witch that sold refreshments was standing over them with an expression of icy fury on her face. 

"He started it," Ron blurted out, automatically pointing at Malfoy who was pulling himself to his feet with as much dignity as was possible under the circumstances. 

"Potter attacked me," Malfoy said coolly as he picked glass fragments off of the sleeve of his robes. 

"He was provoked!" Ron persisted, his face flushing red in anger. 

"Shut your mouth, Weasley," Malfoy sneered, his tone dripping with condescending disgust. 

The little witch threw up her hands in anger. "That's enough out of all of you! Never in all my years... Potter, Malfoy, with me. Professor Dumbledore will have to deal with this." 

"So they haven't fired him yet?" Draco sneered, his blonde hair mussed and falling into his eyes. 

"That's enough!" The little witch snapped, clucking her tongue and viscously motioning them towards the front of the train. 

----

Taking one last apprehensive look at the piece of black plastic Gabriel raised it to his ear. "Hello?" he said tentatively. 

"Hello," a voice said on the other end, nearly jarring him out of his senses. So the cell-phone did work after all. "Look, I need to get in contact with Remus Lupin. I saw your article in the Daily Prophet and thought you might know how." 

Gabriel gave an apprehensive glance towards Will and Rita Skeeter, who looked just about to wet her pants in excitement. Not wanting to be the cause of any new scoops, he stepped out of the office, slamming the door behind him. "Mr. Lupin's whereabouts are confidential." 

"I'm a personal friend," the woman insisted. 

__

Like hell you are, Gabriel thought to himself. They got at least 12 calls a day like this, though most were women claiming to be long-lost cousins or aunts or sisters or lovers of Gilderoy Lockhart, hoping to get his room number at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Canning protocol he decided to be rude. Technically he wasn't working for the Prophet anymore so Ptlomey Papscrew, executive editor, could kiss his ass. "So?" 

"You don't believe me," she said. 

"Bravo," Gabriel sneered drolly, the weight of his Uncle's death and his annoyance with this woman settling itself on top of his shoulders. The last thing in the world he wanted to do right now was deal with her. 

"I have to talk to Remus-- you don't understand," she said, almost screaming in frustration. "What can I say to you to prove that I know him?" 

"If you're such a close friend," Gabriel said with growing contempt. "Why don't you have any address?" 

"After your article he's not going to be at Rivermede Road!" she snapped in reply. Then her tone changed, she sounded relieved, almost smug "Rivermede Road..." 

"What about it?" Gabriel sighed. 

"The deed is in my name," she replied, smirking through the phone. "Su Vix, you can check it." 

Gabriel couldn't help himself. "Your name is Vix?" 

"Get your mind out of the gutter," she snapped angrily. "Look, can you get me his address before my phone bill bankrupts me?" 

"I don't have it," Gabriel replied honestly, he hadn't seen Remus Lupin since he had written his article. 

She gave a frustrated growl, "Well hon, do you know someone who would?" 

"Dumbledore," he said on first impulse. 

"Good," she snapped. "You're taking me to him." 

He gave a blank stare of horror at the cellphone, "What?" 

"I'm coming into London Heathrow tonight in gate B4 at 10:14 P.M., pick me up there." 

"Wait--" Gabriel began, feeling somewhat shell-shocked. 

"10:14," she repeated as the line went dead. 

It was then he realized that he had no idea what he had gotten himself into. 

----

"Where's Hagrid?" 

"Eh?" Ron turned in the general direction of Hermione, trying to find her in the mad rush of students swarming off of the Hogwarts Express and into the Hogsmeade station. 

"Where's Hagrid?" She repeated, yelling into his ear. "He's not with the first years." 

"Ow," Ron pushed her away, rubbing his ear. "There's no need to yell." 

"Sorry," she said, lowering her voice a touch. Ron looked up, and sure enough, Hermione was right, the first years were being led away not by Hagrid, but a figure much smaller and impossible to distinguish in the crowd of students. 

"Dunno," he replied, "Maybe he's up at the castle." 

"Maybe..." Hermione said, sounding less than certain. 

Ron rolled his eyes as he opened the door to one of the horseless carriages, "I'm sure he's fine, Hermione," he said with a long suffering sigh. 

"I hope so," she said nervously, stepping into the carriage. 

"You worry too much," he said mater-of-factly, bounding in beside her. 

"I do not," she snorted huffily, scooting away from him. 

"Ron! Hermione!" Hermione rolled her eyes obviously as Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown climbed into their carriage. With a groan, it began to move away from the station and up towards the castle. "Is it true?" 

"Is what true?" Ron asked as he slammed the swinging door shut. 

"Everything!" Lavender said, her eyes as wide as saucers in anticipation. She reached into the pocket of her robes and pulled out a newspaper clipping: Gabriel's article. "About Cedric and Professor Lupin and Sirius Black and Professor Dumbledore and Peter Pettigrew and Harry and You and--" 

"I think you should ask Harry," Hermione said stuffily.   


"Yeah it's true," replied Ron, shooting her a look. 

"Oh!" Lavender began, giggling softly. "I think it was ever so brave--"

Ron blushed, looking down at his feet, "Well it did hurt allot when I broke my leg, but somehow I pulled through--" 

"When Harry fought You-Know-Who!" Lavender continued, totally oblivious to Ron's downcast expression. 

Parvati gave a dreamy sigh, "Where is Harry?" 

"He was fighting with Malfoy," Ron said sulkily, still smarting from Lavender's rejection. "They're taking him to Dumbledore." 

Parvati and Lavender gave simultaneous gasps. "That's terribly brave of him," Lavender sighed. 

"I hope they don't expel him," Parvati threw in dreamily. 

Lavender rolled her eyes, "They wouldn't expel him, he's... Harry Potter." She tittered softly, his very name bringing a smile to her face. 

Parvati shrugged, "No, I suppose not, but I hope they don't expel Draco." 

"He's the only worthwhile thing to look at during Potions," Lavender breathed dreamily. 

"Excuse me?" Ron said as he exchanged a pained look with Hermione. 

"Of course you wouldn't understand," Parvati said, as if this explained everything. "You're a guy." 

"Honestly!" Lavender snapped. "What do you expect me to look at, Snape?" 

"Oh, he's so sexy!" Parvati giggled sarcastically. 

"Gag me," Lavender added as the girls exploded in laughter. 

"I never thought he was all that bad," Hermione said earnestly as Lavender and Parvati gaped simultaneously in disgust. "I'm just kidding..."

"Thank God!" Parvati said fervently as the carriage rolled to a halt in front of the stone stairway leading up to the great hall. 

They clambered out of the carriage and were about to make their way up the stairs to where the feast awaited steaming hot when Ron felt a hand grab his shoulder, "Hagrid's gone." 

He turned around to see Fred and George giving him the same serious looks. Because a George without a grin is a dangerous George indeed, Ron edged out of his grasp. "Yeah..." he said, glancing from twin to twin nervously, "He wasn't at the Hogsmeade station." 

"No, he's gone for good," Fred said without so much as a single joke. "We have a new teacher and everything." 

"Who?" said Hermione, coming up from behind Ron. 

"That would take all the fun out of it. We promised not to tell." George replied, giving her an evil smirk.

"Since when have you kept your promises?" Ron protested. 

"You'll find out at the feast anyway," Fred added, ignoring him as they disappeared into the crowd of swarming students. 

Ron stared at the twins retreating backs, "I don't believe them," he said flatly. 

Hermione just shrugged, "Only one way to find out," she said, gesturing towards the hall. 

Pushing their was through the crowd, Hermione and Ron bypassed a group of excited second years clustering around a curly-haired boy with pet sprite on a leash. Ron cringed, the sprite looked too much like a Cornish pixie for his comfort and he remembered his last encounter with the "flighty little buggers" all too well. 

Perhaps trying to make up for the nightmares of the Triwizard tournament, Dumbledore had truly outdone himself this year. The great hall was draped with tapestries red, green, yellow, and blue (for each of the four houses) and in addittion to the usual flowers, feathers, and frills each of the long tables was adorned with tall candles, each levitating a few inches off the tablecloths. 

Ron's eyes turned immediately to the staff table, where he saw, for once in their lives Fred and George were being earnest. "Hagrid's replacement! Hermione, I can't believe they didn't tell me, it's Charlie!" 

"Ron," Hermione tugged on his sleeve, obviously not listening to a single word he was saying. "Ron it's Snape." 

"Not again, Hermione," he sighed. 

"No-- not that," she said urgently. "He's gone, Ron." 

----

If there was one word to personify the deep-down essence of London Heathrow, it would be gray. The doldrum industrial gray carpet clashed beautifully with the dark gray walls while the infrequent windows opened up into chronic gray skies. One thousand gray suits with their gray leather briefcases passed through these halls everyday, faceless and unseeing, lost in a world where the drabness never stopped and the grayness permeated all. 

Gabriel didn't know why he had shown up. Maybe it was for lack of anything better to do, maybe it was because of some loyalty to Remus Lupin, hitherto unknown to him, or maybe it was just the age-old curiosity. Which, by the by, had killed the cat. 

But he knew, without admitting it to himself, that coming to Heathrow was nothing more than a diversion. Gabriel had to keep his thoughts from drifting to his uncle, Cornelius Fudge. Fudge was an enigma to him, and as much as Gabriel refused to admit it, the only family he had ever really known. Yet, in spite of raising him, caring for him, Fudge had loathed Gabriel beyond anyone else in the world. As a small child, he had wondered what he had been doing wrong, but as he grew older, as he learned the story of his parent's deaths, he supposed Fudge's dislike brewed from his father's legacy. Lucifer's final gift to his son. And now... Cornelius Fudge was dead. He wasn't really sad, the love between them had been minimal at its best, but a dull ache of disbelief had captured his insides, an ache he was desperately trying to ignore. 

Standing in the recesses of the hallway, halfway between darkness and shadow, his eyes were fixed on the window, watching the 10:00 Concorde from Hong Kong pull into the gate, the lights of signal flares bouncing off its aluminum underbelly. A bright eyed stewardess chirped something into the intercom about a 69 pound discount on a one-way ticket to Darkest Peru before opening the gate's doors and freeing the passengers. 

They began to file out, a trickle at first, and then in a torrent. Grandparents hugged much missed children, families of tourists dragged half-asleep children, and of course the businessmen followed, all lugging laptop computers. Trying to fight his way though the sudden melee of people, Gabriel realized with a sinking sensation that he had no idea what Vix looked like. Feeling like a complete idiot, he watched the moments, seconds, minutes, trickle by as the happy families bounced off and the businessmen scurried away, emptying the gate. He gave one last hopeful glance around, and then he saw her. She must have seen him too, because she crossed the gate towards him, a funny lopsided smile on her face, "Gabriel Cox?" 

He blinked in surprise, "Vix Su?" If he expected anything out of Vix, She was the furthest thing from it he could have visualized. Asian, she couldn't have come past her shoulder. Vix was wearing a leather motorcycle jacket several sizes too big for her, which only seemed to make her seem smaller than she actually was. She smiled again, off center, as she pushed a strand of black hair out of her face. "I didn't think you'd come." 

"Neither did I," he replied, still trying to take her all in as he reached out and shook her hand. 

Reaching into the leather bag she had slung over her shoulder, Vix pulled out a dog-eared and horribly stained paper. "I'm not a wizard so I had to steal this, but I've been reading your article." She handed the Prophet over to him. 

"Good to see someone has," he remarked snippily, taking the paper in his hand as she rezipped her bag. 

"Why?" Vix looked up. 

He shrugged, "There's been no change. Voldemort's captured Durmstang. Sirius Black is still in hiding, and the ministry insists that the Dark Lord can't be back--" he suddenly caught himself. "I'm boring you, you wanted to find Remus Lupin." 

"No, its all right," Vix said softly. "I'll help if I can." 

Gabriel laughed before he could stop himself, "You're a muggle." 

She gave him a venomous look, "And you wizards are all pricks." 

Gabriel decided to hold back the retort and swiftly changed subjects. "You want me to take you to Professor Lupin." 

Vix smiled again, raising an eyebrow, "Professor?" 

Gabriel narrowed his eyes, "I thought you knew him."

"I didn't know he was a teacher," she gave a small grin. "We didn't have time to learn details."

"What did you have time to do?" Gabriel said, his mind wandering a thousand different paths, each one more bizarre than the last. 

"Escape a bunch of psychopathic killers," Vix replied, well aware that this aroused more questions than it answered. "But where can I find him?" 

"We need to go to Hogwarts, that's in Scotland," Gabriel added for Vix's benefit. "If anyone knows where Lupin is, it's Professor Dumbledore. Normally I'd apperate or use floo powder, but since you're a muggle--" 

Vix's eyes had suddenly grown wide with excitement, "Gabriel have you ever taken the train?" 

"Er... yeah." 

"I haven't," she positively bubbled. "What do you say?"

----

Harry gave Draco a belligerent glance as they were marched through the too-empty corridors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry by the formidable little witch from the Hogwarts Express. Turning into a long corridor he had seen only three times before, they halted in front of an immense stone gargoyle. 

"Fizzing Whizbees," she snapped as the gargoyle opened its eyes lethargically and swung aside with a reluctant croak. Giving them a cold stare, the little witch motioned them up the winding staircase to the office above. "Albus? I'm here with Potter and Malfoy." 

"Your owl arrived five minutes ago. I've already read all about it, Natasha," Dumbledore said, shooing her out, his blue eyes bleary and tired. 

"Well I certainly hope that you take care of it, Albus," she said, giving a disapproving sigh as she stamped out the door. 

Harry braced himself for the inevitable lecture as he watched Dumbledore cross quietly across the floor and sink down into his desk with the crunch of old knees. Looking up suddenly, the headmaster met Harry's questioning stare, and its gaze was so old and tired that Harry felt a lump of dread well up in the back of his throat. But as if he had only imagined it, the look was gone, replaced with all business. "Harry, Draco," he sighed, drumming his fingers on his desk in a preoccupied manner. "I'm very disappointed in you both." Harry could see Draco's simpering sneer out of the corner of his eye as he kept his own gaze firmly locked in the floor. "Especially after the events of this summer, the last thing we need at Hogwarts is infighting among our own students. United we stand and divided we fall," Dumbledore paused to take a breath. "And this is the time to show it." 

"I'm sorry, sir," Malfoy said too quickly, the sides of his mouth twitching in a mocking smile. Dumbledore turned his gaze to Harry, waiting for him to speak. 

Harry opened his mouth to echo Draco's apology, and then shut it firmly, remembering the reason he had jumped Malfoy in the first place. "I'm not." 

Dumbledore simply raised an eyebrow, turning his head towards Harry. "You're not?" 

"No, I'm not sir," Harry replied, hearing the paintings of Hogwart's former headmasters behind him hurridly whisper to each other in scandalized fury. "He insulted Cedric Diggory." 

A flicker of… something passed over Dumbledore's face, whether guilt or sorrow, it was gone too quickly to categorize. "I hope, Draco," he said in a subdued tone. "That you live a life as descent as Cedric's." Draco said nothing, his gray eyes blazing in muted fury. 

Dumbledore ignored this and turning to both boys he gave a rueful and very tired smile, "Well I can't keep you from the feast much longer and I daresay whatever morals I throw at you will go in one ear and out your nose so, you're dismissed." Draco shot a look of unchecked malice at Harry before storming out of door. Hesitantly, Harry made to follow when Dumbledore's voice called him back. "I've only had one other student refuse to apologize before." 

"Who was it?" Harry said quietly, meeting his piercing blue gaze. 

"Severus Snape." 

Before Harry had a chance to respond, the door to Dumbledore's office flew open and a familiar hulking figure limped into the room, his wooden leg catching on the carpet. Harry instinctively took a step backwards as the glare of Mad-Eye Moody fell on him, the magical eye rolling back into his head as the normal one blinked shrewdly. It felt rather like being looked at under a microscope and Harry felt as if Moody could see all the way through him, see every thought as it formed in his brain, read every inkling inside his skull. From that moment on, Harry had no doubt as to why Moody had been the most feared auror in the Ministry of Magic. "So this is Potter?" he said hoarsely, turning his terrifying scarred visage to Dumbledore. 

"Yes it's Potter," Dumbledore replied, getting out from behind the desk and crossing towards his old friend. "Harry this is Alastor Moody, our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher." 

Harry could only nod, his voice seemed to have welled up in the back of his throat. "It's all right, Albus," Moody said gruffly. "He already knows me." He took a long slow glance at Harry and shook his head in an almost wistful fashion, "He knows me..."

"What is it, Alastor?" Dumbledore asked. 

Moody's face darkened. "I'm resigning." 

It was the first time Harry had ever seen Dumbledore look off balance, "What?" 

Without so much as a glance at Harry, Moody continued. "Fudge is dead. He had LUCIFER written onto his chest in blood, I can't stay here teaching children how to kill boggarts. I've asked to take the case." 

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed, "Don't you think its a little personal?" 

"That's why I'm taking it," Moody spat bitterly. "It's personal." 

"And whom do you suspect?" Dumbledore asked, motioning Moody to take a seat. 

He remained standing, his face fixed into a scarred mask, "You know very well whom I suspect." 

Dumbledore shook his head sadly, "Alastor, you can't think that--" 

"You were the one that found the bodies, Albus." Moody said. "You were there, how can you deny this?" 

Dumbledore's face contracted in confusion, "I never saw the bodies." 

"You were there," Moody insisted, stamping his wooden leg on the ground. "You said that... Lucifer had killed her and that you had found them lying on the ground." He gave a bitter smirk, "Then you wished me Happy Christmas." 

Saying nothing, Dumbledore began to pace about the room in deep thought, Moody watching him with confusion bordering on anger. Both of the men had seemed to have forgotten that Harry was even in the room, and he was about to edge towards the door when it swung open with a bang. "Professor Dumbledore, I was wondering--" The voice stopped dead when it saw Mad-Eye Moody. 

"Come on in Gabriel," said Professor Dumbledore with a bitter smile. "We were just discussing you." 

----

__

If you are ready… If you are prepared… 

He was as prepared as he'd ever be. 

Dumbledore had two potential enemies in his fight against the Dark Lord, the giants and the dementors. 

Hagrid and Olympe Maxime were taking care of the giants, and the dementors were his. Severus Snape paced the confines of his room at Hogwarts, feeling, as always, that terrible sense of enclosure. This could very well be the last time he walked here, the last time his feet brushed these worn stones. His breath rose and fell with the crescendo of his heart as he laid his hand on the door handle. _Good-bye room._

It was so final, and yet, what he had to do had not yet sunk to the depths of his psyche. It was as if he was a spectator on his own life, watching his husk of a body go about its business and perform the unthinkable. The insane. 

It was so hard to be good. Especially when the right thing was to lock yourself up in a death trap and throw away the key. Turning around, Severus Snape took a long slow glance around the room before he shut the door behind him for the very last time.

__

Are you confused? Don't worry, you have every right to be, this ties all of my stories together so if you haven't read one… or another, you can go back and do it, or read my painless summaries below, or just give me the finger and take the A train off to read other things (if you take this route may I recommend rave's a shift). Here are the summaries for you lazy bums. If you care to review or read a paragraph of my ramblings just scroll down to the bottom.   


****

THIRD CAMP: takes place directly after GoF, through long involved and excruciating plot, Harry and Ron go to live with Sirius and Remus who are driven out of their house by a mob of angry reporters a short time after. It turns out that Rita Skeeter broke her promise to Hermione and wrote a tell-all saying that Sirius and Dumbledore were in cahoots to take over the world and follow in Voldemort's footsteps. Sirius escapes (barely) when he is warned by Hermione and Viktor Krum (who fly in from Bulgaria). It looks like Dumbledore and Remus are going to be arrested until Gabriel Cox (Cornelius Fudge's nephew) writes an article for the Daily Prophet telling the events of PoA and GoF and that the wizarding world needs to band together to fight Voldemort. Fudge drafts a letter to Dumbledore about to make amends....  


****

PAS DE DEUX: Takes place in the early 1970s, when Voldemort is making his rise to power. His first, and most loyal death eater is a serial murderer referred to as "Lucifer" after the angel of death. The wizarding world lives in constant fear of Lucifer who kills random people indiscriminately. Assigned to Lucifer's case is Chita Ramone, an auror who is also engaged to Alastor (Mad-Eye, though he's not Mad-Eye yet) Moody. Alastor's best friend is a man named Sejanus Cox, who teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts. Sejanus's fiancé is Liv Fudge, Cornelius Fudge's ballet dancer sister. At the end, Sejanus kills Chita in self-defense, who attacks him, thinking he is Lucifer. Chita's death drives Alastor insane, and he begins to hunt Sejanus down with a manic passion. It turns out that Liv is Lucifer, and after leaving her son (Gabriel Cox of the Third Camp) with Cornelius, she tries to go turn herself in, because Sejanus is being held by the Ministry as Lucifer. Voldemort gets to her first and kills her, framing Sejanus by using his wand. Alastor finds the bodies and watches in horror as Sejanus is sent to Azkaban. Ten years later, Alastor manages to get inside the prison and puts a knife through the back of his one time friend. To the present day everyone, Moody included, believes that Sejanus is Lucifer.  


****

CHINA DOLL: Basically what happens in Sirius and Remus go to Hong Kong and meet a girl named Vix. And like she said, run away from a bunch of psychopathic mobsters (As you can see I'm tired of summarizing). 

No I'm not dead! My internet just crashed, I just had a temporary bout of writer's block, but now that I have some semblance of a plot worked out all's well on the western front. Thanks first and foremost to Rowena for beta-ing me, and then to everyone that reviewed (beth, Trinity Day (thanks for braving the mopy plot reading Pas De Deux too) Silimay, rave (where is part two of three leaves left!, I'm dying here!!!), Katie Bell (got the quote from the Usual Suspects of all places…), KNA, NS, the most lovely sorceress, clara200, moon (will we ever see a call of the wild part duex?), viktorsgurl (of course viktor will be back!! I couldn't just let hermione hanging there, could I?), crazy poet (cool site, by the by), alicia/sue spinnet, aragog, and last but definatly not least, Leef (I've missed you!)). Please read and review everyone and so long, fare-thee-well, pip pip cheerio, I'll be back soon. 


	4. The Twelfth Use of Dragon's Blood

PHOENIX ASCENDING III-- The Twelfth Use of Dragon's Blood

Gabriel stood frozen, staring wildly from Dumbledore to Moody and back again, knowing in an instant what they must have been discussing. "If you are bent on leaving, Alastor..." Dumbledore began, clearing his throat. 

"I am," Moody finished quickly; his eyes fixed maliciously on Gabriel. 

"Then there is nothing I can do to stop you," Dumbledore said heavily, pulling out a piece of parchment and scribbling hastily upon it. He handed it to Harry with a smile. "Harry, if you would please leave us, we have much to discuss. And if you would be so kind to run this over to the owlery on your way to the feast, it's for Professor Lupin." 

Harry Potter nodded, taking the letter in his hand. He gave Gabriel a sympathetic smile and headed out the door, the echoing of his shoes growing ever fainter as he raced down the stairs. 

"Gabriel, take a seat," said Dumbledore quietly, gesturing to a vacant ottoman. He sunk into his own chair behind the desk with a huge audible sigh. Moody said nothing, and his silence was what worried Gabriel most of all. 

Swallowing hard, Gabriel shook his head. "I'm just... stopping in," he said, trying to ignore Moody's predatorial gaze. "There's a woman here who wants to get in contact with Remus Lupin." 

Right on cue, the office door opened and Vix stepped in, motorcycle jacket and all. "I got sick of waiting," she remarked to no one in particular, before sinking into the chair beside Gabriel. 

"And who might you be?" Dumbledore asked, without so much as blinking an eye. 

"Vix Su," she answered, smiling broadly and extending her hand. 

Standing up, Dumbledore took it and returned the grin, "Albus Dumbledore. This is Alastor Moody," Vix gave a double take at the scarred features and magical eye which had rolled back into his head, leaving the socket blank and white. "Our... former Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher." 

Sensing something was amiss, Vix's smile faded. "Is this a bad time?" 

Dumbledore waved his hand dismissivly, "No matter. Now what can I do for you, Miss Su?" 

"I'm looking for Remus Lupin," she replied, noticing how Moody's features darkened at the mention of his name. 

"Why?" Dumbledore asked, returning to his seat behind the desk. 

"We met," Vix began, shooting a tentative glance at Gabriel, who was busy avoiding Moody's stare. "In Hong Kong about a year ago--" 

Dumbledore's smile twitched, "So you're the famous waitress?" 

"What do you know?" Vix said abruptly, jerking her head up and gazing at him warily. 

"Nothing but the bare rudimentals, Miss Su," he replied reassuringly. "As you were saying?" 

"I assaulted one of my customers and stole his Daily Prophet," she said coolly. "Because Remus and Sirius were discussed in the article. They're both too damn stubborn for their own good and would never ask for help whether they needed it or not so, I decided to come to them. I phoned the author of the article, Gabriel, and he took me here, saying that if anyone knew Remus's whereabouts, or Sirius's for that matter, it would be you." She said this all very fast and very matter-of-factly, leaning back in the seat when she had finished. 

"I just sent an owl to Remus as Gabriel was coming in," Dumbledore replied, equally unruffled. "He will probably be here within the next day or so, but if you're willing to brave our school, I'm sure we could accommodate you until his arrival." 

"Really?" Vix stood up, a wide grin spreading over her face. "Are you serious?" 

"Absolutely," Dumbledore replied, and then found himself positively at a loss for words as Vix enveloped him in a huge bear hug. No one ever hugged Albus Dumbledore. Yes, they smiled and winked at him until he felt like something out of a Walt Disney picture, but no one have ever, ever hugged him. He found that he rather liked it. "Ah... yes," Dumbledore said, untangling himself as Gabriel tried to suppress his smirk and Moody his blatant disgust. "Well, I'll show you to a room, then I have to go down to the start of term feast, there's several important announcements to get out of the way." He opened the door and then turned back to Moody. "If you'd excuse me, Alastor. We'll talk later." With that, he walked out through the door, Vix only a few paces behind. Gabriel and Moody were alone in the room. 

"So," Gabriel began rather awkwardly, staring around at the portraits of all of the former headmasters, half-asleep in their frames. He supposed it was rather boring being a painting, "So..." 

"Don't play games with me Cox," Moody cut him off, limping forward so that it was impossible for Gabriel to avoid his stare. "Cornelius Fudge is dead." 

"I know that," Gabriel said quietly, looking away as Moody bore down on top of him. 

Moody gave a threatening growl, his Scottish brogue hard and dangerous. "And you know what was written onto his body, Cox? The word Lucifer mean anything to you?" 

"Stop it!" Gabriel stood up, knocking his chair over in the process. He ignored it and turned to face Moody, anger filling him as he stared at the broken old man with the broken old leg, smiling like he was just about to break him. 

"I'm watching you Cox," Moody replied, steeping so close to Gabriel that he could feel his breath on his cheek. "I'm watching your every move, your every thought, your every action. You can't escape me, when you so much as breathe... I know." 

"Leave me alone!" Gabriel replied, slowly emphasizing each word with so much loathing it was impossible to tell which one of them exuded more hate. 

"Like father, like son," Moody spat contemptuously, staring straight into Gabriel's eyes. 

Gabriel was the first to look away. Wheeling around, he stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him with a wrenching crack. Moody just stood there for a long time, staring after him, the faintest of smiles twisting its way over his ravaged face. 

----

"So you got expelled?" Harry shook his head as he slid in between Ron and Hermione just as the sorting was winding down. 

"Nah, just lectured, you'll never guess who showed up as I was leaving," he whispered in reply. 

"You'll never guess who's not here," Ron grinned madly, motioning Harry closer. "Snape!" 

"You're kidding!" Harry said, with a smile to rival Ron's own. At that second, a memory flashed across his mind, an echo of Dumbledore's voice almost half a year ago_. "Severus, if you are ready, if you're prepared--"_ With a shiver, Harry stopped smiling. He honestly didn't want to know where Snape was. 

"Hagrid's gone too," Hermione said somberly. 

"Where is he?" Harry asked. 

"Dunno," Ron shrugged.

Just as Zoraster, Abbot joined the Slytherin house; Professor Dumbledore walked into the hall and up towards the staff table, looking extremely worn and tired. He paused in front of his seat and turned to address the school. Within a few seconds, all chatter had ceased and every pair of eyes was focused on him. Dumbledore cleared his throat and began to speak, his voice reverberating around the hall. "Before I allow you to dig in to this most excellent feast, there are a few announcements that must be made. Mr. Filch would like me to make it perfectly clear to all students that," he checked a small piece of parchment in his hand and began to read off it. "Unless you can't tell by the name, the Forbidden Forest is forbidden to all students, and that includes Fred and George Weasley." He stuffed the parchment back into his robes, eyes twinkling. Fred and George exchanged a satisfied smirk as the hall erupted in laughter around them. 

"Madame Hooch needs to see anyone interested in trying out for their house Quiddich teams. Slytherin needs two chasers, Ravenclaw, both beaters and a chaser, Gryffindor a keeper and Hufflepuff... a seeker." The hall grew quiet for a moment, the memory of that Hufflepuff seeker echoing in every mind. 

Dumbledore paused a moment before continuing. "We have several new teachers this year. Acting as interim Care of Magical Creatures Teacher is Professor Weasley." Charlie stood up and at the tumultuous applause. When Fred and George began to catcall his face turned almost as red as his hair. 

"I can't believe he didn't tell me!" Ron yelled, clapping along with everyone else, and shaking his head in amazement. "This is going to be a riot!" 

Dumbledore's voice cut him off. "A few moments ago, Professor Moody came to me and resigned his post as Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher." 

The hall filled with mutterings and whispers at this announcement, and Harry heard a seventh year up the table turn to his friend and mutter "The job is jinxed, I'm telling you." Most of the other students seemed to share his opinion, conversing among themselves with worried expressions. 

Dumbledore held up his hand for silence and cleared his throat before continuing. "Because this leaves us in a rather tight position, I have sent an owl to Professor Lupin, whom some of you may remember. Until I receive his reply, I myself will be covering the lessons." 

The outcry in the hall was tumultuous. Some people, Harry, Ron, and Hermione included were grinning wildly and applauding Dumbledore, while others looked worried or even terrified. A group of bewildered first and second years stared around as the older student's began to fill them in. Leaning in towards Harry, Ron smiled. "This is great, what? With Charlie and Lupin." 

Harry smiled in response, "Yeah. I was there when Moody resigned--" 

But Hermione cut his story short, "Look at Malfoy." The three of them turned towards the Slytherin table where Draco Malfoy sat between Crabbe and Goyle, white with livid fury. Muttering something to Goyle, Harry saw his mouth form the word _werewolf_. "Lupin may not even come back," Hermione said shrewdly, pulling Harry's attention away from Malfoy and his goons. 

"But then Dumbledore would be our teacher and that's almost as good," Ron replied. 

"As long as they don't bring Gilderoy Lockhart back from St. Mungo's, I don't care who our teacher is," Harry said, still applauding. 

"Hermione wouldn't mind that," Ron grinned broadly. "Would you, Hermione?" 

Hermione turned very red and looked back down at her golden plate, muttering something about not judging men by the size of their broomstick. 

"Professor Snape--" Dumbledore began as the noise in the hall slowly quieted and all eyes focused on him. "Professor Snape is... unable to join us this year. So it is with great pleasure that I present our new potions master, who unfortunately cannot be here with us tonight-- Viktor Krum. Dig in!" The hall practically exploded with noise, heads turned, girls swooned, and everyone stared at each other in slack-jawed surprise, hardly noticing when the gleaming gold platters filled with food. 

Ron was no exception, for he turned to Hermione a look of absolute horror on his face, "What did you do?" 

She went quite purple and glared right back at him; "I didn't do anything!" 

"But... but..." Ron started to stammer. "But what about Quiddich?" 

"Viktor told me he wanted to do something important," Hermione snapped waspishly. "Something that would help with the war against You-Know-Who." 

Ron shook his head in horror, "And teaching Potions here is important?"

"I didn't know it was Potions!" Hermione yelled, as half of the table turned to look at her. "And it's a lot more important than some dumb game anyhow." 

"Quiddich is not a dumb game!" Ron said, pounding his fist on the table so hard that his goblet capsized, spilling pumpkin juice all over the immaculate white tablecloth. 

"Stop acting like it's all my fault!" Hermione snapped. "It was his choice!" 

"What do you see in him, anyway?" Ron yelled. "He's a stupid, slouchy, slimy--" 

"Shut up!" Hermione screeched, standing up quickly. "Ronald Weasley, you're just jealous!" And without another word, she stormed out of the Great Hall, leaving her heaping plate of food untouched. 

"What's her problem?" Ron said, jamming his fork a little too hard into his peppermint humbug, causing it to fly into the air and right through the head of Nearly Headless Nick, sitting with a gaggle of third years a few seats down, causing it to wobble precariously for a few seconds and then topple off. With as much dignity as possible under the circumstances, Nick placed his head back on his shoulders and adjusted his collar, to the third years delight. "Sorry," Ron called out, putting his fork down rather gently. 

"Well you were being a bit of a git," Harry began. 

"What?" Ron gave him an angry stare. 

"Not that she wasn't," Harry amended quickly. "But just because she's... er... dating Viktor Krum, doesn't mean she's convinced him to stop playing Quiddich." 

"She did," Ron insisted sulkily, dragging his fork through his mashed potatoes. "She told him to stop playing Quiddich to make me angry." 

Harry tried hard to fight back the laugh. "Now you're just being stupid." 

Ron shot him a dirty look before exchanging his demolished dinner with Hermione's intact one. "You'll don't think she'll be back?"

"Not 'til you apologize," Harry said meaningfully. 

Ron snorted, "Fat chance of that. It's all her fault anyhow." 

Harry thought otherwise, but he kept his mouth shut, not wanting to antagonize Ron any further. They spent the rest of dinner talking about the upcoming Quiddich tryouts until the feast was finally over and their golden plates wiped clean. Getting up with the rest of the Gryffindors, Ron and Harry headed over to the staff table to say hello to Charlie. 

"How come you didn't tell me?" Ron yelled as Charlie gave him a wide grin. 

"Hello to you too," he replied. "And it was the twins, they figured it would be hilarious if you didn't know." 

"Very funny," Ron said sulkily. 

"Well I'm only here 'til Hagrid is back," Charlie replied. 

"Where is he?" Harry asked for the second time that night. 

"Buggered if I know," Charlie replied shrugging. "Off on business for Dumbledore I'd imagine. Viktor Krum came as a real shock though, eh?" 

"He should have stayed in Quiddich," Ron said, a little too passionately. 

"Somewhat hard, though," Charlie replied, looking at him curiously. "Since they shut down the Bulgarian National Quiddich Team." 

"What?" Harry and Ron said in unison.

Charlie shrugged, "What I've heard is just rumors really, from some of my friends back in Romania. They're a whole load of drunken villagers so don't quote me on anything, but supposedly You-Know-Who has taken over Durmstang and is using it as a sort of fort to attack the rest of Bulgaria. The country is supposed to be in total chaos and the Bulgarian Ministry cut its funding to the Quiddich team and pumped it into the war effort." 

"Oh," said Ron, looking down at his feet. 

They said good-bye to Charlie and headed up to the common room, opening up the Fat Lady with the help of a sixth-year prefect waiting around for stragglers who told them the new password: Felix Minor. 

Looking around the common room for a second, Harry spotted a bushy haired figure curled up in a plush velvet armchair in a corner, eyes focused on an enormous book. Nudging Ron, Harry pointed towards her. When they reached Hermione's corner, she purposefully ignored them, keeping her eyes forcibly glued on _Hogwarts: A History_. "Haven't you already read that?" Harry asked, giving her a friendly smile. Hermione gave a non-committal grunt, never looking up. 

Going crimson Ron took a deep breath, "Hermione, I'm sorry." 

She closed the book with a snap, "Good." 

"So you forgive me?" Ron asked with a hesitant smile. 

"No," Hermione said. "But I'll speak to you now." And without another glance at the two of them, she flounced out of the common room and up the stairs to her dormitory. 

Ron looked at Harry in utter bewilderment, "Girls," he muttered darkly. 

----

He stood between two worlds, ripening in one like a raisin in the sun, wraughting the other with his wildest fantasies as time flew by, unhinged and unheeding. Closing his eyes, he dared imagine his personal world, dared imagine the form he had in it, felt the wings on his back, the heavy powerful tail, and the dangerous fangs that could crush a man's scull. He reached out for his world, reached out for the power that awaited him there-- and fell. He backed out of the hall, hitting a door and falling flat into the tiny room he'd been given. Every speck of paint, every inch of friendly gingham plaid swam before his eyes, writhing and reforming into an incomprehensible mess, a flowing blob of sensory images he couldn't even begin to grasp. He reached out wildly for one of the color strands, a bright red one, only to find his hand brushing empty air. 

Illusions. 

The deranged dreams of a dizzy mind. He put a hand down to the floor, trying to ground himself in solid reality. Through the melee, a pounding began in his temples, a steady drill of pain. As the ground grew steady under him, a tiny voice rose in treble in the back of his head. 

It had been two days. His world had been without him for two days. 

Slowly, unsteadily, he got to his feet, wavering this way and that, trying desperately to make the ground stay still as he winced from the pain in his head. 

Two days. 

He walked down the hall, planting his foot purposefully, not minding as the walls began to bend and stretch beyond any logic. Logic was seldom a bedmate of his. 

****

BOOM!

Suddenly he dropped to the floor, cradling his aching head between his knees, trying to press out the pain. He ground his legs into his temples, harder and harder, faster and faster, forever and ever...

****

BOOM! 

A huge roar rose up at his temples, overriding the wall of pain as his world, his beloved little world swam before him just out of reach and the reality he was trapped in grew all too close. Still that little voice sneered...

Two days. 

He was blinking back tears as the headache rose. Fueled by nothing but raw desperation, he gripped the wall, groping for the dream state just beyond his grasp. He remained unheeding as his fingernails filled with plaster and tiny bits of flowered paper fell around him like a snow flurry...

Two days... Two days...

He ran to the bathroom, instinctively knowing where it was, and threw the medicine cabinet open, groped through the bottles, watching apathetically as they shattered on the floor...

It wasn't there. 

He looked again, and still it eluded his probing fingers. With the desperation borne of pure pain, he slammed the cabinet shut. He stared for a single instant at the reflection mirrored back to him, the unruly brown hair, the gray eyes, tired... so tired...

It wasn't there. 

Giving a roar to match the one inside his head, he swung his fist into his reflection, watching as it shattered into 1000 pieces. He looked down, first at the fractured mirror, and then at his bloody hand. Slowly, hardly daring, he lifted the hand up to his face, watching as the blood welled up to the skin and slid down his fingers, down, down, down to land in a puddle on the immaculate white tile floor. 

Tentatively, he reached out with his tongue, and licked his second finger clean. Still his head pounded, beating out a cry for the one thing it needed the most: Dragon's Blood.

----

Sirius heard the crash as he was halfway through his morning coffee, still nursing the scars brought on by being wrenched out of bed at four in the morning by the mother of all atrocities, jazz music. He got off the sofa and started up the stairs, grumbling to himself about houseguests. When he reached the head of the stairwell, he froze. The hall was a mess; its carpet flung to one side while the door to the room that had been given to Romulus hung from its frame by a single hinge. Sirius took a step forward and lowered the door carefully into its original position, hoping it would remain upright for the time being. He stopped, staring at the wall behind the door, which had been torn apart by... by something, so that there were gaping holes in the plaster and the wallpaper lay in tiny shreds all over the floor. He looked down the hall, half fearing what he would see next. A single medicine bottle rolled its way out of the bathroom and hit the opposite wall with a thud. Eyes narrowing, Sirius picked his way across the floor, until he was facing the bathroom itself. 

Medicine bottles were strewn on the floor, their contents splashed and splattered all over the tile. Romulus lay in the middle of this; surrounded by fragments of glass that Sirius could only assume had once been the mirror. He was watching his hand bleed, smiling as the red liquid dripped onto the white tile, soaking through into the grout. "Hello, Black," he said calmly, never once looking up. 

"What the hell are you doing?" Sirius replied walking into the bathroom and slamming the door shut with a bang, causing a dozen medicine bottle to skitter across the floor and scatter their contents even further. 

"Watching myself bleed," he replied, touching his wounded hand gently. "That a sin?" 

Sirius knelt down so he could see Romulus more clearly. "What were you doing in the bathroom?" his tone was low and dangerous. 

"Looking," came the reply, sounding almost bored. 

"For what?" 

"You know what I was looking for, Black," Romulus lashed out, raising his head suddenly. "You know, so don't play your stupid games with me. Get out of my life, leave me alone." 

"You weren't invited into mine, and let's just say I want you out of it as soon as possible," Sirius hissed threateningly. "I'm going to make one thing clear to you, Lupin." 

"What?" Romulus let out a hollow laugh, "Play nice with the other boys and no looking under the sink?" 

Sirius stared at him, his voice low and his tone threatening. "I want to you leave Remus alone, I want you to stay as far away from him as possible and I want you to leave as soon as your sick existence allows you to. I know what you've done to him and I know he'll take it from you again. I won't. I don't care if you're his brother, and I wouldn't give a damn if you were my brother. If you try anything, if you do anything I will kill you, understood? I won't think twice." 

Romulus just laughed, lifting up his bloodied hand and laid it ever so gently on Sirius's face. Then his own expression contorted and he dug his nails into Sirius's skin whispering a single word, "Blood." 

Sirius didn't hesitate, his fist lashed out and hit Romulus square in the jaw, "Don't try me." From below, the sound of a door opening was audible, and steps on the stairwell. Bending close, Sirius looked into Romulus's eyes, "I will kill you," he whispered as the door swung open behind him. 

"What's going on?" Remus stood in the door frame, his face contorted with worry. 

"Romulus just broke the mirror, no big deal," Sirius said matter-of-factly, standing up and offering his hand to Lupin's brother, still kneeling on the floor. Romulus took it, giving him a venomous look as he rose to his feet. 

Remus looked between the two of them, his expression darkening, but he either believed Sirius's limited explanation or simply wanted to so he didn't press any further. Reaching into the pocket of his robes, he pulled out a shred of parchment. "Moody resigned, and Dumbledore wants me to take the Defense Against the Dark Arts job at Hogwarts."

Sirius's face was expressionless, "And are you?" 

Remus's eyes flickered briefly to Romulus and then back again, "I can't. But I feel as if I ought to tell him in person. I'll be gone for a few days most likely." 

Sirius nodded, and then turned to where Romulus was standing, a smile spreading over his face. "Then it will just be the two of us, eh?" 

Romulus made no reply, staring apathetically forward as the other two left the bathroom, leaving him alone with only the broken mirror and his own fantasies, just beyond his reach. 

----

When Harry and Ron went down to breakfast the next morning, the hall was in a state of uproar. People were everywhere, munching toast while waving their schedules around blithely. Hermione waved Ron and Harry over the Gryffindor table, where she had been saving them seats, and handed them both a schedule. The tone seemed perfectly civil, and Harry was relieved that both Ron and Hermione had seemed to have forgotten about the hissy fit of the previous night. Ron took one look at the schedule and let out a long low groan. "I hate Mondays." 

Feeling the impending weight of doom, Harry ventured a glance at his own schedule, and immediately saw the cause of Ron's frustration. The had Care of Magical Creatures first, which wouldn't be too bad, but it was followed up by History of Magic, where Professor Binns managed to turn even the most gruesome battles into sleep aids. Then, if only to make matters worst came Divination, a total waste at its best, and finally Potions, a class Harry had grown to hate over the last four years of his life. "Damn," he groaned. 

"Harry, Ron," Hermione chastened, "Look on the bright side!" 

"What bright side?" Ron said miserably, staring at his gruel in disgust.

"There's no Snape!" Hermione said brightly. 

"Thanks Hermione," said Ron sarcastically. "Cheers me up a lot, that does."

"You know you like Viktor," Hermione sighed. "More than Snape at least." 

Ron looked utterly miserable, "That doesn't take allot. I like Percy more than I like Snape." 

Ignoring him, Harry looked up at the staff table, "Professor Lupin's not here yet, neither is Viktor." 

"Maybe he died en route from Bulgaria," Ron muttered under his breath so only Harry could catch it. "Splinched himself in Poland." 

Fighting back a smile, Harry kicked Ron under the table, who kicked back... hard. "Who's that?" Hermione said, unaware of the fight unfolding behind her. 

"Who's who?" Harry asked, mildly distracted as Ron was trying to hit him with a spoon full of gruel. FWALP! The gruel flew through the air, hitting Hermione's S.P.E.W. notebook, which was lying wide open on the table. Ron tried to hide the evidence, thrusting the spoon towards Harry as Hermione gave him a dirty look and scraped the gruel off her book and onto the floor.

"As I was saying," she said in a disapproving tone strangely reminiscent of Percy. "Who is the woman sitting next to Dumbledore?"

Ron shrugged, rather disinterested, "I dunno." 

"What?" Harry said, still discombobulated from the gruel incident. 

"The woman, next to Dumbledore?" Hermione shook her head at his blank look, "Who is she?" 

Harry turned to look, "I don't know." In spite of himself he couldn't help smiling. "She looks allot like Cho Chang." Ron began to cough so loudly that Harry didn't know whether to pat him on the back or smack him over the head so he decided to ignore him completely and turn to look at the newcomer. She sure as anything wasn't a teacher dressed as she was in a Muggle motorcycle jacket and T-shirt bearing the words: MURDERER'S WAY. She was Asian and seemed to be engaged in an intense conversation with Dumbledore who had abandoned his gruel completely in order to devote his full attention to the woman. "Do you think she's an auror?" he asked. 

"Maybe a beautiful American transfer student," Ron said wistfully. 

"Don't you wish," Harry smirked. "They all fall for me anyway." 

"Boys…" Hermione said in a disapproving tone. "That's not remotely funny. And she's too old to be a student anyway." 

Ron nudged her gently, "Ah Herm, you're no fun." 

"Don't call me Herm," said Hermione stuffily. "It sounds like a skin disease." 

Ron gave her a hurt look; "Maybe you'd prefer Her-my-oh-ninny." 

"Oh honestly!" She threw up her hands in disgust. "Would you grow up a little, Ron?" Not waiting for a response, Hermione glanced at her watch. "If we don't hurry up, we'll be late for Care of Magical Creatures." 

"All right then," Harry said, eager to change the subject before Ron and Hermione were at it again. "Let's—"

But he didn't have time to finish his sentence as the door to the Great Hall flew open with a resounding bang, letting in a draft of icy wind. Instantly all chatter ceased and every eye turned to look at the door as a cloaked figure walked purposefully through it and began to stride up the hall towards the staff table, pulling off his hood as he went. Hermione gave an involuntary gasp as she recognized his face. Harry, was too shocked to make any sort of response, he was stuck just staring at the figure in surprise like everyone else in the Great Hall. Except one. 

The Asian woman who had been so engrossed in conversation with Dumbledore had turned a deathly white, a huge smile spreading over her face. She vaulted over the staff table, almost capsizing it and causing Professor McGonagall to turn a sickly shade of green. The woman ran down the last few feet of hall towards the cloaked figure who had stopped with apparent shock at the sight of her. Flinging her arms around his neck she whispered one word, "Remus." 

----

Harry, Ron and Hermione trudged up the many winding sets of stairs to the classroom where Care of Magical Creatures was listed on their schedules. As much as he loved Charlie, Harry desperately wished he was back up in the Great Hall listening to whatever Lupin, Dumbledore, and the woman were talking about. Dumbledore had rushed the two of them up to his office as soon as she had detached her arms from around Remus's neck. Come to think of it, the woman did look a lot like Cho Chang. Harry smiled to himself, wondering suddenly how Lupin knew her; maybe he should ask Sirius. 

Looking out a window, Harry saw Hagrid's cabin, and not for the first time that day, wished he was walking out there instead. Sure Hagrid might have some dangerous new beast, or even some awful assignment, but Harry felt as if he would eat a whole truckload of Hagrid's homemade rock cakes if it meant he could see him again. Mentally kicking himself, he turned away from the window; the last thing he needed to get was sentimental. Besides, if Hagrid wasn't teaching, Charlie was defiantly the next best thing. 

"Look what the cat dragged in," Ron hissed to Harry as they arrived in front of Charlie's classroom. The Slytherins were already there, waiting, looking as if the summer had only made them grow more nastier and vindictive. 

"Saw your baby-sitter in the hall," Malfoy sneered as Harry walked by. "Are you sure you shouldn't have checked him into the kennel?" 

The Slytherins guffawed and Hermione whispered "Ignore them, Harry, ignore them," under her breath as she opened the door to the classroom. Charlie was waiting, and he quickly pulled his feet off the desk as the students filed in, the Slytherins and Gryffindors staring daggers at each other. Ron, Harry and Hermione filed into three desks near the blackboard upon which was written one word: DRAGONS. 

"Oh no," Harry exchanged a look with Ron. From nursing Norbert in their first year to facing the Hungarian Horntail just last term, Harry's experience with Dragons had been far from something he wanted to relieve. 

"At least it's not a skrewt," Seamus Finnigan grinned, settling himself down just behind Harry, Ron and Hermione. 

"I'd take the skrewt," Harry said grimly. 

"Don't let Charlie hear you," Ron whispered. "He's almost as fanatical as Hagrid." 

When the last students were seated, Charlie clapped his hands together, his face breaking into a wide grin. "Fantastic!" he smiled. "Let's get on with it then, shall we? This year," he gestured widely at the board. "We'll be studying dragons. So... er... right... what's important about dragons?" Right on cue Hermione's hand shot up into the air. "Yes, Hermione?" 

"Their blood has twelve uses," she volunteered blithely. 

"Right," Charlie replied. "Five points to Gryffindor," he said in a tone as if he had always wanted to do that. "So can anyone tell me what the twelve uses are?" 

"We did that in first year... Professor," Malfoy sneered from the row behind Harry. 

"And do you remember them, Malfoy?" Charlie asked. He was answered with a sulky silence. "No don't worry," he added as Neville began to look uncomfortable. "I wouldn't have either. So we may as well start here, can anyone tell me what Dragon's blood is used for?" 

Dean Thomas raise his hand, "They put it in paint sometimes... I think." Dean would know something like that, being an artist. 

Charlie nodded and wrote it on the chalkboard. "Anyone else?" 

Hermione of course raised her hand, but Charlie called on Salvia Hickebourger, one of the Slytherin girls. "Oven cleaner, plant fertilizer, and it can get a stain out of anything," she added sounding exactly like a commercial. 

Charlie wrote these down, "That's four, anyone else? Hermione?"

She began, sounding at once like she had swallowed the textbook. "It's magnetic, wood for wands is soaked in it, its good bait for magical creatures of dark origins, it is used in developing moving photographs, is a chief ingredient in alchemy and in the Oedipii Charm and... and..." she broke off, amazed and ashamed to have forgotten something, even something as insignificant as the twelfth use of dragon blood. 

"I think..." Neville ventured, disarmed by Charlie's friendly manner. "I think, I mean I might be wrong and everything but isn't it used in medicine, or something like that..." 

"Yes," said Charlie, giving Neville a wide smile. "The twelfth use of dragon's blood is as a stimulant, to awaken patients that have been knocked out or sometimes are on the brink of death. But it's highly addictive; so most wizards use it sparingly. Now copy this down you lazy lugs, we don't have all day." 

----

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Harry saw neither head nor hide of Lupin or the Asian woman, though he had been able to think of little else. Hermione however, had other things on her mind, for when they sat in History of Magic, listening to Professor Binns drone on to his less than enthralled audience about the societal implications of section 4A.265 of the Muggle Protection Act of 1926, she bent over to whisper to the both of Harry and Ron. "I want to check out Hagrid's cabin." 

"Wha?" Ron yawned, having fallen asleep over his notes. 

"I want to check out Hagrid's cabin," Hermione repeated, her voice twinged with slight disapproval. "Maybe there's something in it to see where he is." 

"I'm sure he'll be back soon," Harry said, like Ron too bored to think straight. 

"Nevertheless," she began, looking especially anxious and worried. 

Harry looked at Ron, and Ron looked at Harry and they both heaved a great sigh. As they had learned over the last four years, when Hermione got onto an idea there was little much to do except go along with her. "All right," Harry sighed. "We'll look around at lunch." 

----

Severus Snape walked into the dank Ministry of Magic offices, his shoes ringing hard on the cold marble floor. The crest nailed onto the receptionists desk proclaimed the room as "The Offices of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement", but the secretary looked rather unable to enforce any law at the moment, magical or otherwise. She was staring blankly at the wall, playing with her hair while blowing a gigantic obnoxious bubble of chewing gum. If there was one thing in the world Severus could not stand, it was gum. 

He walked coldly to the desk and laid his hands upon it, saying nothing but nevertheless fixing the secretary with his trademark glare. She blinked, and realizing she was being watched turned around towards Snape with a flick of her platinum blonde hair, "Yeah?"

Snape recognized her immediately: Hilly Constantine, a Gryffindor naturally, who had graduated a few years back. He remembered her as a girl with far to much hair and not much between the ears. His face formed itself into the appropriate nasty sneer. "Miss Constantine," he hissed. 

She stared at him blankly and blew another bubble of gum before replying, "Professor Snape." 

"I'd like to speak with your director," he said disdainfully, as Hilly took the gum out of her mouth and stuck it onto the Y in her nameplate, where the hot pink quivering mass was quite visible to Snape. 

"She's available by appointment only, Professor," she smirked. Though Snape knew it not, Hilly enjoyed telling him off immensely, it had been a dream of hers ever since her first potions class nine years before. 

"This is a matter of the utmost importance," he hissed with growing annoyance. "I must see the director!" 

"Ms. Ingleson is a busy woman," Hilly replied, glancing at her nails. "She will be in meetings till next Tuesday, maybe even longer considering the Minister of Magic's murder and everything else." Ms. Ingleson was actually free, but Hilly had conveniently forgotten this in lieu of her great love for her former potions master. 

Snape was loosing patience. Shooting Hilly his worst sneer, he rolled up the sleeve of his robes, exposing his left arm to her. Upon that arm, etched for all eternity, was the Dark Mark. "Does this mean anything to you, Miss Constantine?" Obviously it did, because Hilly just gaped, for once at a loss for words. "Good," Snape hissed. "Now I want you to get your director for me now, and not to waste any time, or I will kill you like I killed Cornelius Fudge. Is that understood?" Hilly nodded dumbly, all color draining from her face. Her eyes never moving from Snape's arm, she reached across the desk and grabbed Lord Trupett's Magical Intercom. But before she could page Ms. Ingleson, Snape reached out and gripped her wrist, noticing that Hilly flinched at his touch. "Just for... personal reference," he said. "The going rate for murder is a life sentence in Azkaban, is it not?" Hilly nodded, speechless as she flicked on the intercom. 

Snape skulked away from the desk, not really listening or caring when Hilly paged Ms. Ingleson and her hit wizards. He had done it: the unthinkable, the insane. Dumbledore had spies everywhere, tiny eyes and ears in the Ministry, in the Death Eaters, even in the past. There was only one place that had so far been impenetrable to Dumbledore's network, the island fortress of Azkaban. But no longer would the dementors be out of Albus's reach. The time was now for their fortress to fall. Snape's work had just begun.

----

The three of them ran across the lawn under the invisibility cloak, Harry's stomach grumbling all the while for the lunch he was forsaking. "Hermione," he growled, after they had passed the Whomping Willow. "I hope this is worth it to you." 

"Oh it is," she whispered back. "There has to be some sort of clue in the cabin as to where Hagrid is." 

Ron's voice sounded indignant from somewhere near Harry's shoulder, "Can't we just do this after lunch?" 

"Shhhh!" Hermione's arm hit Harry in the face, presumably to cover Ron's mouth. Harry soon saw why, for Charlie was making his way up the path, whistling "Wands Don't Make the Man". They stood there frozen for a second while he passed close enough to touch them. "That was close," Hermione whispered when he walked past the willow and out of view. 

"Terribly," Ron replied, sarcastically. 

"Shut up, both of you," Harry smirked as they made their way to the cabin. The door was locked but Hermione had it open with an easy "Alhorama!" 

"I feel kind of bad about this," she remarked to no one in particular. "It is Hagrid's property and all..." 

"Ach!" Ron growled, pulling the invisibility cloak off of him with a snap. "It was YOUR idea, Herm." 

"How many times do I have to tell you not to call me Herm," she rolled her eyes. 

"Righto, Herm," he replied, dodging her punch. 

"What's that?" Harry asked, motioning them both closer as they stared at the table. Lying upon it was an object the likes of which Harry had never seen. It was a long cylindrical tube, silver all over, with colors of every ilk and background darting beneath the surface, fading and melting into each other before reforming in the blink of an eye. Here a patch of green became blue, then pink, finally a color Harry had never seen before, halfway between purple and orange. It was mesmerizing, but he finally managed to tear his eyes away from it and turn them to Ron and Hermione, who were both also agape with wonder. 

"I've never seen anything like it," Hermione said in outright amazement. 

"What do you say we take it back up with us to the castle, just to have a look-see," Ron said. "Not that Hagrid's here to mind or anything." 

"Ron," Hermione hissed angrily. "It might be dangerous!" 

"Come off it, Hermione," Ron rolled his eyes, reaching out for the silvery tube. He reached out to grab it, but the instant his hand brushed against it, he disappeared. 

Harry looked at Hermione, and she looked at Harry and both of their jaws dropped. "What happened?" she said weakly. 

"No idea," he replied, staring at the tube, glinting maliciously back at him. 

"What should we--" she began and then broke off, backing away in horror. 

Harry wasn't any more thrilled than Hermione. "Well we have to go after him, eh?" She opened her mouth as if to protest, then biting her lip, nodded. She bent towards him, gripping his hand. Together, the two of them reached for the tube and Harry felt the all-too familiar jerk behind his navel before the world went black. 

----

The reporters all huddled together in the large auditorium. It was clearly designed to impress, the long silky carpet and crystal chandeliers perfectly accented each other while the rich impressionist oils hanging on the walls gave such a feel of luxury that the galleons were almost palpable. Drenched from the raging thunderstorm outside and holding nothing but ragged scraps of parchment, the luxurious room served no purpose other than to make most of the reporters huddled inside feel especially small and insignificant, which of course was the intent behind holding the press conference there. All the reporters were waiting with baited breath, anxiously checking the time and glancing at the mahogany podium that stood on a raise dais a few meters from their seats. When a Ministry official entered from the side door and walked up to the podium there was an audible sigh of relief from every side. The official cleared his throat, but he didn't really have to, every eye in the room was already focused on him. "It is my great pleasure to be here with all of you tonight," the man's bottlebrush mustache twitched self-importantly as he talked, muffling his words somewhat. "And I hope that you all are as comfortable as possible." 

"Get on with it!" one of the reporters yelled from the second row from the back. 

The official ignored him, swishing his mustache in an annoyed fashion, "As you all know, our much beloved Minister passed away this past week, but his killer is now custody. Severus Snape, the former Potions master at Hogwarts School and Wizardry confessed to the crime. For the record, Snape is also a former Death Eater who received a pardon from Bartimus Crouch Sr. fourteen years ago." At these words an ominous whispering overtook the reporters, each one glancing at his neighbor, the words_ "Death Eater"_ on every lip. Once again the official cleared his throat, "But this is not a time to look back, this is a time for moving forwards and it is my great pleasure to announce to you all that the Ministry has now selected a new Minister of Magic, one who is ready and willing to face and defeat the challenges pending upon the wizarding community today, one who is ready to build a bridge to the twenty-first century and beyond, a man who had my personal vote because I have never seen one more qualified and more deserving!" His voice had reached a zealous pitch and the reporters were hanging on every word, "Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the six hundred and sixty-sixth Minister of Magic: Lucius Malfoy!" 

An instant hush fell over the room, more powerful than before, as the tall thin man with the shock of gleaming blonde hair walked out of the side door an up towards the podium, command in every inch of his body, a smile of triumph stretched over his face. Tilting his head slightly, Lucius Malfoy gripped the sides of the podium. "Questions?"

__

confused? don't be! I have summaries in the last two chapters, so check those out if you want. sorry to rowena for not waiting for her to beta (i'm soooorrryyy!!!) but I really wanted to get this one out before I had to start school again and life got hectic :O(. I still love you rowena! I do! everyone (if you haven't) check out her fics, vaya and unchained melody, both of them beautiful. thanks for everyone that reviewed the last one espically silimay who did twice :O). Next up, plently of viktor krum, in fact I think the whole chapter will be about viktor krum, when its not about remus and sirius and vix and dumbledore and harry and ron and snape and moody and romulus and... but you get my drift. review please, tell me what you think of romulus, vix, gabriel, or the mid-east peace process. anyway i've rambled enough, g'night and i'm out.


	5. Across the Sea of Sand

__

A/N- Charlie Parker is a jazz saxophonist for those of you who don't know…

****

PHOENIX ASCENDING IV-- ACROSS THE SEA OF SAND

"Remus." 

"Vix," he said, choking back everything at once; surprise, shock, anger, abandonment, pain, rage, love, loneliness, and expressing it in one three letter word as she buried her head next to his own. For the first time in two years, he smelt the almost tangy scent if her hair, coffee and cheap shampoo mixed with the slightest twinge of wood smoke. Feeling a sudden wetness on his shoulder, he realized that Vix was crying. He drew her ever closer, squeezing her arm, hardly believing that it was she, he was here, this was real. 

"Ahem," Remus turned around at the sound of the new voice. Vix jerked her head off his shoulder and looked up, furtively wiping the tears off her face and smearing her mascara in the process. Reality was slowly becoming more and more like a sadistic dream. Standing before Remus with an almost bemused expression on his face was Albus Dumbledore, and behind him all 900-odd Hogwarts students, staff, and specters, faces painted in varying degrees of shock and surprise. 

"Albus!" A huffing Minerva McGonagall walked up, her lips pursed in disapproval. Doing a double take, Remus noticed that her robes were covered in a rather lumpy gray gruel. 

Seeing the state of McGonagall's robes, Vix bit her lip, realizing that her jump over the staff table hadn't been as smooth as she had previously hoped. "Sorry," she smirked, trying to hold in the smile. 

McGonagall gave her a look of pure death before turning to Dumbledore. "What is the meaning of this?" As if to emphasize her point, the staff table gave a sickening crack and then collapsed, spraying the entire faculty with gruel. 

What followed can only be described as an uncomfortable silence. 

"Maybe you two had better come with me," Dumbledore finally said, his expression in his eyes unreadable behind his half-moon lenses. Remus hadn't heard those words since the days when Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs roamed free, the time when Sirius's scrapes were unavoidable and James's latest devilish prank was right around the corner. Dumbledore began to walk up towards the door, his movement jerking Remus back out of nostalgia lane. Feeling rather sheepish, Remus followed him, Vix at his side. All 900 pairs of eyes in the room were fixed on their every breath, their every movement. All in all, it was most unnerving. Dumbledore suddenly stopped and turned around in midstride, a mischievous smile on his face. "By the way, this is Professor Lupin." 

They exited amid a tumult of applause. Sirius would have been proud. 

----

Sirius wasn't feeling cheerful enough to be proud, in fact, he was nothing short of royally pissed off. He was parked on one end of Remus's cheerful gingham couch, eyes focused maniacally on the other side, where Romulus sat, staring back. In Romulus's hand was a somewhat dog-eared Charlie Parker album. Balanced precariously between them, was a record player. 

It had all begun thirty minutes earlier when Romulus had stumbled down the stairs with his Charlie Parker album in hand. Sirius, who had been staring mopily at the wall, had seen what he was holding, sensed the danger and grabbed the record player off its shelf with a terse, "No." Romulus had then proceeded to park himself on the couch as far away from Sirius as possible and stare at him angrily until he gave way. So far, neither of them had cracked. 

"Don't you dare," Sirius hissed warningly as Romulus's hand strayed towards the record player. 

"You're not my mother, Black," Romulus growled back, eyes never wavering from Sirius's own. 

"Did you ever meet Severus Snape, Lupin?" Sirius asked, leaning in towards Romulus as he shook his head. "No? Severus Snape pissed me off once. Do you know what I did to him?" He eyed Romulus's fingers, straying ever closer towards the record player, "I broke every bone in his left hand. He had to have it completely regrown." 

Romulus gave a hollow sounding laugh, "You're really afraid of me." 

Sirius looked up, his brows contracting. "What?" 

"I'm smarter than you are," Romulus said, smirking to himself. "And you're afraid of me." 

"Then why don't you just put the record on?" Sirius snapped, looking back up into Romulus's haggard face. "If I'm quaking in my boots?" 

Romulus didn't respond directly, his face taking on an almost hazy look. "Thirteen years in Azkaban. You know why you didn't loose it like the others? There was nothing to loose, only dead air and empty violence--" 

Sirius was about to launch himself across the couch when two things happened. First, an owl flew through the open window, hooting madly and dropping a letter on Sirius's head with a satisfied cluck. Secondly, Romulus grabbed the record player, smacked his album into it and jammed the needle onto the record wildly, almost scratching it in the process. He began to search for the on button as Sirius unfolded his letter unconcernedly and began to read. A sense of disbelief crept over him as his eyes traveled over the single sentence again, and again. 

__

Vix is here --Albus

"We're going to Hogwarts," Sirius remarked nonchalantly as Romulus jammed his finger into the ON button triumphantly. Nothing happened. "Smarter than me, eh?" Sirius said smugly as he unfurled his hand to reveal a pair of batteries. 

----

Viktor Krum hit the cold stone floor of Hogwarts entry hall with a slight swoosh of air. Standing up and cracking his neck, he breathed a sigh of relief. Normally appariton in the Hogwarts grounds was impossible, but Dumbledore let the down the wards for a short 24 hours at the start of term each year for the conveyance of arriving faculty. After being held up in British Customs, Viktor was afraid he'd miss the 24 hour mark. Security was particularly tight on any persons coming in from the Bulgarian sector, due to the recent dark activity in the country. At first, the customs agents had flat out refused to believe that he was Viktor Krum and he had been held in their scummy little office overnight so that his passport could be verified, his bags searched, and his Quiddich gear mysteriously confiscated. All in all, it had not been a night to remember. 

Sighing, Viktor shouldered his significantly lightened luggage and took a few steps forward before he realized he had no idea where he was going. To his relief, a tall severe figure with her crisp black hair pulled tightly into a bun walked out of a door on his left and gave him a smile. "Mr. Krum," she said, extending her hand. He awkwardly shook it, due to the luggage slung over his back. "I am Minerva McGonagall, deputy headmistress. You may remember me from last year." 

"Yes, I am sorry," he began after a slight pause. "I got laid over in Customs." 

Professor McGonagall scowled disapprovingly, "Apparition travel is so awkward these days, with all the delays and crashes. I myself just rent a broom." Viktor nodded, inwardly cringing. There was no way he would ever ride a broom from Bulgaria to England again. Shaking her head, McGonagall continued. "Well you have first period free thankfully, that's where everyone is now, so how about I take you up to Professor Dumbledore? He'll want to talk to you before you get started." 

Viktor nodded, and let her lead him up countless staircases and down winding corridors until he was thoroughly lost and figured he would never find his way out again, let alone to the Potions classroom. Finally, Professor McGonagall arrived in front of a large stone gargoyle, which opened its eyes lazily to gaze at her in an offended manner. "He's in a meeting right now," the gargoyle said smugly. "He won't want to see you." 

"I think I know a little more about Professor Dumbledore than you do, Grack," Professor McGonagall sniffed, eyes narrowing at the gargoyle. 

Grack the Gargoyle's stony lips twisted into a cheeky grin, "You wanna bet on that? You don't know what he does on Saturday nights, and believe me, it aint pretty." 

"Never mind that," McGonagall said prissily, giving the gargoyle a positively condescending look. "Fizzing Whizzbees." 

"Never liked them," Grack muttered belligerently as he swung open on its hinges, revealing a long winding staircase with a wooden door at the top. 

"Go on up, dear," McGonagall gave Viktor a slight push towards the stairs. Halfway there, he realized that she was staying down at the bottom. His heart gave an involuntary thump as he reached the wooden door, and raised his hand to knock. Taking a deep breath he did, and the door swung open ever so slowly. Viktor took a tentative step into the office, eyeing Dumbledore and the two wizards sitting with him warily. 

"Professor," he began, feeling a need to break the uncomfortable silence, only provoked by the disapproving glares of Hogwarts former headmasters and mistresses. "I'm sorry I am late. I vas detained Customs. If this is a bad time..." 

Dumbledore stood up, a broad smile stretching across his wrinkled face as he extended his hand. "Not at all, Viktor. I'm glad to see you've arrived so safely." He gestured to an empty chair. "Please, join us. I believe you've met Remus Lupin?" Dumbledore nodded towards one of the two other wizards, whom Viktor recognized vaguely as a friend of Hermione's. "And this is Vix Su," Dumbledore continued pointing at the other person, a slight Asian woman with mascara smudged down her cheek. "Vix is visiting us from Hong Kong." Viktor knew nothing of Hong Kong other than that their Quiddich team had come in last in the Eastern Asia division for twenty-two straight seasons, but he gave Vix a curt nod anyway. "Vix, this is Viktor Krum, our new potions master here at Hogwarts." 

Lupin looked up abruptly, staring from Viktor to Dumbledore in shock. "What about Snape?" 

"That is what I wanted to discuss," Dumbledore said heavily, reaching deep within his desk and pulling out a newspaper. He unfurled it onto the tabletop so that the headline was visible. "Severus Snape just turned himself in for the murder of Cornelius Fudge." 

"Snape killed Cornelius Fudge--" Lupin interjected, his face looking even more gray than Viktor remembered. 

"Of course he didn't," Dumbledore replied shortly. "He turned himself in on my orders. I have sent Hagrid and Olympe Maxime to make contact with the giants in their hideaway, and hopefully dissuade them from joining Voldemort, if not joining us. The dementors will not be so pliable. The question is not if they will join Voldemort, but when. And when they do, I need to know." 

"Snape is your spy in Azkaban," Lupin said in amazement, shaking his head. "And he agreed to this?" 

"He agreed," Dumbledore said heavily, sinking back into his chair. "He did what he had to do." 

"Mad-Eye Moody doesn't buy it," a new voice cut in, and turning around Viktor saw Gabriel Cox, the Daily Prophet reporter who had interviewed Harry this last summer step into the room. "Professor McGonagall said you wanted to see me before I left, sir." 

"So I did, Gabriel, so I did," Dumbledore sighed, drumming his fingers in his desk. He rubbed his temples wearily then looked directly at the reporter. "What's all this about Alastor Moody?" 

"He threatened me last night, after you left with Vix," Gabriel said slowly, trying to sound nonchalant, but failing miserably. "Like father, like son is what he said."

"What's this?" Vix looked straight at Gabriel, who stayed silent a long time before replying. 

"My father was Mad-Eye Moody's best friend, but it turned out he was secretly working for Lord Voldemort and was the murderer of twenty-six people. He killed Moody's wife trying to escape capture, and later when he was apprehended, he killed my mother when she came to visit him. Moody was the one who found her body. Cornelius Fudge, the man that was just murdered is-- was my uncle, on my mother's side. He raised me while my father was in Azkaban. And he was found dead a few nights ago with the word LUCIFER written onto his chest in blood. Lucifer was what my father was known as when he killed those twenty-six people. So naturally I'm suspect. " 

"Actually--" Dumbledore interrupted, holding up his index finger. "According to Alastor he didn't find your mother's body at all. He says I led him to it, but unless my memory is completely gone, I didn't see Liv's corpse until the funeral." 

"I think it's more likely that Moody's memory is shaky," Gabriel sneered, an anger ingrained into every line of his face. 

"Alastor Moody is no fool, Gabriel," Dumbledore said neutrally. "He's still the best auror the Ministry ever had." 

"How can that be?" Lupin cut in, shaking his head slowly. "Supposing that both of you remember the incident correctly." 

"I remember it vividly enough," Dumbledore replied, rubbing his temples again. "It was all over the papers." 

"I wouldn't know," Gabriel said, his tone dark and dangerous. 

"Remember at the end of last year," Viktor said, surprising even himself as he spoke up for the first time since he had arrived in the room. "Vhen Barty Crouch was discovered as Moody..." 

"Go on," Dumbledore said, his face constricting with concentration. 

"Vat if the same thing happened here?" Viktor said quietly, his mind forming the idea as his lips issued the words. "Vat if Dumbledore, the Dumbledore that Moody saw, vas someone on Polyjuice. It's possible." 

"But why?" Gabriel collapsed into a chair beside Viktor. "Why would anyone want Moody to find the bodies so badly they'd go to all that trouble." 

"Maybe they didn't want Moody to find the bodies, necessarily," Lupin said slowly, obviously thinking hard. "Maybe they wanted to get in and out of the Ministry prison unnoticed and who is less likely to be challenged than Albus Dumbledore." 

"It doesn't make any sense," Gabriel said, shaking his head slowly. 

"It's funny," Dumbledore remarked, almost to himself. "Sejanus freely admitted to killing Chita, that's Moody's wife," he added for Vix's benefit. "But never any of the other twenty-seven victims." Dumbledore shook his head and turned once more to the paper. "But I'm afraid we have a slightly more recent dilemma to attend to." He turned the paper to the second page where a gleaming black and white photograph showed a wizard with gleaming blonde hair and designer dress robes waving merrily. "Lucius Malfoy has just been appointed the sixth-hundred and sixty-sixth minister of magic." 

"God dammit!" Gabriel yelled, before seeing Dumbledore's slightly disapproving gaze. "Sorry." 

"Who's Lucius Malfoy?" Vix asked, staring at the moving photograph with a look of amazement on her face. 

"A long time supporter of Lord Voldemort. Orien in Armani," Lupin replied to her calmly. 

The comment meant nothing to Viktor, who recognized the waving man from a few state dinners with the British Ministry. "Vasn't his father Minister?" 

"You'd think they'd have more sense than to elect someone just because his father had the top job," Dumbledore replied, rolling up the paper. "This however, puts a serious damper on out anti-Voldemort activities, because there is no doubt where Mr. Malfoy's loyalties lie." 

"What are you going to do?" Gabriel asked. 

"Proceed as usual and hope we remain unnoticed," Dumbledore replied, rising to his feet with the creak of old bones. "Whatever happens, only time will tell. And on the subject of time, its running short, I have a Defense Against the Dark Arts class to cover shortly and Viktor needs to proceed to the down to dungeons." 

"I'll show him where it is," Gabriel stood up. 

"I need to talk you about the Defense Against the Dark Arts--" Lupin began. 

Dumbledore held up his hand, "Tonight, if you would be so kind and Professor Flitwick manages to repair the staff table," he added with a smile in the direction of Vix. 

Lupin nodded and stood up, as if to leave himself, when a terrific whooshing sound came from Dumbledore's fireplace and a body fell out, followed shortly by another. The first figure stood up and with an automatic wrench in his gut, Viktor realized it was Sirius Black. "I came as soon as I got your letter--" But Black was cut short as Vix broke away from Remus to wrap her arms around his neck, her third hug in the last twelve hours. Black muttered something that Viktor couldn't catch, but Vix broke away laughing. Then stopped. 

The second body was slowly struggling to his feet. He was the mirror image of Remus in every way, and yet, Vix had never seen anyone more unlike the man at her back. Maybe it was his hair, ruffled and unruly, or the hollowness of his face, or maybe, the way his eyes seemed lost and empty, the window to a soul where the flame of anger lurked, and the darkness of despair was eminent. The man lost his balance and clutched at the mantelpiece, knocking over a dusty spellbook in the process. It landed on the floor with a thud, heralding the heavy silence that rang out in the room. Dumbledore was the first to move, breaking away from Gabriel he took a few brisk steps forward and offered his hand to the man, "Albus Dumbledore. You must be the famous Romulus, it's a pleasure to meet you at last."

The man stared blankly at Dumbledore's hand for a few seconds and then a nasty smile etched itself across his gray face. He moved his hand, and for the briefest of seconds, Vix thought he would take Dumbledore's own, but instead he extended his middle finger, his gray eyes daring Dumbledore to retaliate. Albus's hand slowly dropped to his side. "I must be going," he said quietly, eyes never wavering from Romulus's depreciating grin. And without that, Dumbledore left the room, his boots ringing shrilly on the hard wooden stairs, Viktor Krum and Gabriel not far behind. 

"Vix, meet Romulus," Sirius said blithely, leaning up against the fireplace. "Remus's evil twin." 

Both Remus and Romulus shot Sirius a look of pure death, their body language both eerily reminiscent of the other's. And for a while, no one spoke, the silence hard on every ear as every heart tried to make sense of the situation, which was beyond any justification, and piece together the fractured pieces, but to no avail.

It was Sirius who finally broke the silence, "You've never been to Hogwarts, have you, Vix?" 

She turned away from Romulus, who was still gripping the mantelpiece so hard that his knuckles had turned white, "No, I haven't." 

"How about we give you the grand tour?" It was plain by Sirius's tone that all he really wanted to do was to free himself from the oppressive atmosphere of Dumbledore's office. He turned to Romulus, his face sporting a nasty smile, "Coming?" 

Romulus's mouth bent into a sneer, "No." 

Sirius shrugged, "Not my loss, the day isn't getting any younger." He opened the door and walked out, followed shortly by Vix, and then Remus, who fixed Romulus with his intense gray stare as the door swung shut. 

----

Harry hit the ground with a thud, his ears ringing and head throbbing as the crisp blue sky whirled above him in a dance that made his eyes swim. Trying to make some sense of the situation he attempted to pick himself up off of the ground, but his hands instantly lost their grip, the soil running through his fingers like grains of... sand. Impossible. Harry shut his eyes, but when he reopened them, stark reality still confronted him. He was in the middle of a desert, yellow sand stretching as far as the eye could see, until it met the wide open sky thousands of miles away. Harry heard a moan beside him, and turning, he saw Hermione struggling to her knees, the entire left side of her face coated with sand. "Where are we?" she began, trailing off to gape at the mass of never-ending dunes in absolute shock. 

"A desert," Harry replied, wincing in the hot sun as he got to his feet. "I think that tube was some kind of portkey." 

"You think?" Harry and Hermione turned around to see Ron, the bottom half of his Hogwarts robes trailing in the sand. "You two just appeared out of nowhere." 

"You!" Hermione shrieked, leaping to her feet. "You're the one that got us into this mess in the first place!" 

Ron stared at her indignantly, "Who wanted to go to Hagrid's cabin? Not me!" 

"You grabbed the stupid tube!" In an effort to launch herself at Ron, Hermione tripped over the loose end of her robes and lost her balance. She let out a shrill scream as her feet gave out from under her and she tumbled head over heels down the sand dune and out of view. 

"Hermione!" Harry and Ron cried as one as they ran down the hillock after her, heedless of the shifting dune underneath their feet. 

"I'm all right," she lay at the bottom, pale, winded and rather sandy, but otherwise unhurt. 

"Hermione, I'm sorry," Ron began, but Harry cut him off as he pointed off into the eastern horizon. 

"Look!" Hidden up until now by the crest of the dune was a thin line of figures that could only be a caravan. They were so far away that any individual features were impossible to discern, but a banner flying over the single wagon proclaimed the letters _SPQR_ to the desolate desert. 

"Who are they?" Ron whistled. 

"I dunno," Harry replied, moping his already sweaty brow. "But they're bound to know more about this place than we do, eh?" 

Only Hermione had remained silent, pointing at the caravan's banner with a shocked expression on her face. "SPQR..."

Harry looked at her incredulously, "So?" 

"SPQR," Hermione insisted, staring from Harry to Ron with an absolutly terrified expression on her face. "Senate Populus Que Romanus." 

"Er... god bless you?" Ron replied, exchanging a dumbstruck glance with Harry. 

"Honestly!" she snorted, giving them both a look of complete disgust. "Neither of you have any idea what I'm talking about, do you? And Harry, you went to Muggle school, too." 

"Not to say that I learned anything," Harry muttered sulkily, looking down at his feet. 

"We're in Ancient Rome," Hermione said flatly, noticing with a smug satisfaction when both of their jaws simultaneously dropped. 

"You're joking!" Ron just gaped. Harry for his part, was too dumbfounded to speak, but if he could have found his words, they would be along the same lines as Ron's. 

"No I'm not," Hermione said stuffily, sounding for all the word like an indignant Percy. "SPQR, the abbreviation for Senate Populus Que Romanus, was the motto of ancient Rome. Any group of traveling Roman citizens that wanted to keep their heads carried an SPQR banner to show that they were under the protection of the Emperor. The banners haven't been used since Rome fell in 476 AD." 

"Maybe they're just a bunch of nutters, who like to pretend they're Ancient Romans," Ron said rather weakly. 

"See Ron," Hermione said sarcastically. "I would be inclined to agree with you if we weren't up to ears in the sand in the middle of what could be the god-forsaken Sahara Desert!" 

"And whose fault is that?" Ron snapped back, the tips of his ears going red. 

"Both of you!" Harry wasn't in the mood for another fight between Ron and Hermione, especially when they had suddenly been transported thousands of miles and possibly thousands of years from where they were supposed to be. 

"Well, I guess its safe to say we'll be late for Potions," Ron sighed. 

"Shhh!" Harry caught Ron's arm and motioned him to look towards the caravan, which had unmistakably changed its course and was now heading straight towards them. "I suppose well find out soon enough." 

----

"You do not!" Vix practically burst out, her jaw dropping.

"Yes, we do," Sirius remarked with a debonair grin. 

"There are no such thing as elves," she said firmly, standing still in the middle of the deserted corridor. 

Remus stopped, a slightly amused look on his face, "Yes, and a year ago there was no such thing as wizards." 

Vix smiled mischievously, "And look where that got me."

Sirius abruptly halted in front of a massive painting depicting a bowl of fruit, "Its been so long since I've been anywhere near here..." 

"You tickle the pear, Sirius," Remus interrupted, walking up beside him to gaze at the painting. 

"I remember that," he said with a long suffering sigh. Reaching up a finger, Sirius did so, and the pear let out a squeaky high-pitched giggle as it swung open on its hinges to reveal the Hogwarts kitchens. "I thought you might enjoy this Vix," Sirius added with a grin, "Being a chef." 

"Incredible," she murmured, for once at a loss for words. To Remus and Sirius, used to the grandeur of Hogwarts, the kitchens were nothing new, but to Vix they were a spiritual experience. The ceiling stretched up almost as far as the eye could see, its dome becoming the floor of the great hall high above. Back on earth, the sinks, fireplaces, and stoves stretched for what seemed an eternity, each burner simmering with its own saucepan of a jus, or Pheasant Stew, or something equally mouthwatering so that all the savory aromas melded together into one irresistible food smell that was omnipresent and inescapable. "How can you two just stand there--" she began, but was just off when something pulled on her leg. 

"Mistress, Mistress, may I gets you anything you is wishing?" Vix let out a high pitched scream. The thing on her leg gave a panicked whimper of its own and dove behind the nearest stove, watching her reproachfully with its huge lamp-like eyes. 

"What is that thing!" she screeched, backing as far away from the stove as possible.

"An elf," Sirius replied, watching the whole episode with great relish. 

Remus took a step towards the stove and reached out his hand, "It's ok, we're not going to hurt you, you can come out now."

"I is not liking loud noises," the elf whimpered piteously, creeping forward on its hands and knees towards his outstretched fingers. "I is not liking them one bit, not that I is complaining. I is a good elf, I does what I is supposed to." The elf was now out from behind the stove, its disgruntled expression pared with its wing-like ears, enormous eyes and long thin nose had the effect of making it look absolutely ridiculous. 

"What's your name?" Remus said quietly, obviously trying to make up for Vix's reaction. 

"I is Jiggy," the elf replied huffily. "What is you wishing?" 

Vix immediately started laughing, whether at the elf's name or high pitched voice, Remus would never know, though he suspected the former. Almost immediately, another elf slid up beside the first, but where Jiggy was wearing a chef's hat, this elf sported a tea cozy. The tea cozy wasn't the only thing out of joint about this elf, for draped around his neck like a noose was a polka-dotted muggle tie, and over his body shoulders he wore an awful striped vest. The elf pointed at Sirius and let out a squeal of delight. "I know you, sir!" he yelled merrily. 

"Oh..." Sirius looked less that thrilled at this prospect. "You do, eh?" 

"Yes!" The elf was so happy, its started doing what looked like poor excuse for a highland jig. "You is the godfather of Harry Potter!" 

At the words, "Harry Potter", hundreds of little elven heads appeared from everywhere in the kitchen, under stoves, behind sinks, even a few had been sitting in the saucepans. "Yes," Sirius looked rather uncomfortable at his sudden audience, "I am..." 

"Oh, Harry Potter is a great wizard!" The elf chortled, bouncing up and down like he was on steroids. "Harry Potter freed Dobby from his master, Harry Potter gave Dobby clothes! And..." the elf added with a positively adoring look in his eye. "Harry Potter gave Dobby these socks!" Dobby lifted up his feet to show Sirius. On the right one, there was a rather disgusting moldy orange sock and on the left, a bright fuzzy purple one with outrageous blue dots. 

"Harry has splendid taste," Sirius remarked, staring at the purple and blue sock with a pained smile. 

The sarcasm was lost on the elf, who positively beamed. "Harry is a friend to Dobby, Dobby visits Harry Potter each month, and that is why Dobby didn't tell anyone when he saw Harry sneaking out of the castle to Hagrid's cabin today, no Dobby's mouth is shut--" 

"Sneaking out of the castle?" Sirius's brows contracted. "When?" 

"Today at lunch," Dobby said, still grinning from ear to ear. "Dobby heard him talking to his friends, they is going to Hagrid's cabin, but Dobby is not telling--" 

"It's been great Dobby," Sirius said, grabbing Remus's arm urgently. "But we have to go." And with that the three of them left the kitchens. 

----

The reached the cabin in less time than Remus had thought possible. It was just as he remembered it with its thatch roof, slightly overgrown garden, and whitewashed walls. Even though it had been empty for a few months, the place still smelled inexpressibly of Hagrid. It was oddly comforting, to think of the brusque gamekeeper at a time like this. The wooden door was slightly agar, Remus felt a wave of dread as he pushed it open and stepping inside, Vix and Sirius a few paces behind him. His eyes were instantly drawn to a pool of silver lying at the foot of the table. "James's invisibility cloak," he said, bending down to pick it up, the cool cloth running through his fingers like water. 

"Harry's been here," Sirius said. "I'm checking the rest of the house," he walked out of the kitchen, egged on by a growing sense of worry. 

"What's that?" Vix was pointing at a long cylindrical tube lying on the table, its surface made up of thousands of different colors blending together and blossoming into each other, before flowering off into blooms of their own. 

Remus dropped the invisibility cloak and took a step towards the tube, a sense of disbelief coursing through him. "It's a Gracyllian Responder... I didn't even know they really existed." 

"A what?" Vix pulled out one of the kitchen chairs, her toes just skimming the ground from her perch in Hagrid's enormous seat. 

"A Gracyllian Responder," Remus repeated, taking a step closer to the tube of infinite color. "In the mid 1700s, Ivan Grayllivitch, a Russian wizard, found a way to break through the fabric of time and somehow, place yourself into the past. No one fully understood the concept except Grayllivitch himself, and he guarded it closely, afraid that someone would steal it. He developed seven of these Responders which could direct whoever touched them into any place, past, future, or present. The idea of time travel is very dangerous. Why bother to fight your enemy when you could go back in time and slit his throat in the cradle, you see? There are many very scary realities with time travel, so when the Russian Ministry got wind of Grayllivitch's doings, they broke into his lab and destroyed every Responder they found there. Grayllivitch was never seen again but legend has it he escaped into the past. Nowadays, not many people seriously believe that the Responders even existed." 

"It's beautiful," Vix murmured, gazing at the Responder in awe. 

"Harry's gone," Sirius said, returning into the kitchen, his face contorted with worry. 

"They probably touched the Responder," Remus said heavily, gesturing towards the tube lying in the middle of Hagrid's table, glinting maliciously at them.

"Shit," Sirius muttered, crossing to the table. "What the hell was he thinking?" 

"He probably didn't even know what it was," Remus said gently. 

"I'm going after him," Sirius said, reaching for the shining tube. 

"Wait," Remus gripped his arm fast. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into." 

"Neither did Harry," Sirius said, clenching his teeth as he tried to wrench away. "Go back up to the castle and tell Dumbledore." 

"If you think I'm going to let you go alone then you're insane," Remus said fervently, still keeping his hold on Sirius's arm.

"Vix, go up to the castle and--" Sirius began. 

"No," she answered. "If you're going, I am." 

"No!" Remus and Sirius turned as one to her. 

"You're a muggle!" Remus said in utter disbelief. 

"And you're an asshole," Vix said unconcernedly, reaching for the tube. In an instant, she was gone. 

"Shit!" Sirius yelled, as he grabbed for the Grayllivian Responder, Remus a frantic heartbeat behind. 

---- 

From outside the door, Romulus smiled. They were gone, Black, his good-for-nothing brother, and their Chinese lapdog disappeared without a trace, hopefully never to be seen again. His own world, his own dreams, his own life was his once more, free of their oppressive self-righteous goodness. He wouldn't miss them. "Lupin," a hand caught his shoulder, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. Turning around slowly, counter to the fearful beating of his heart, he was faced with a sallow figure whose face he recognized form every sports magazine ever printed. "Have you seen Her-my-oh-ninny?" 

The question could not have been more unanticipated, especially coming from the likes of Viktor Krum. "What?" 

Krum took a step closer to Romulus. "Her-my-oh-ninny Granger, she is a fifth year at the school. She knows Hagrid, vho lives down here, and I vas vondering if she had come to see him, as she vasn't in Potions." 

"There's nothing in there," Romulus said quickly, a little too quickly, for a look of suspicion flashed over Krum's face. 

Without a word to Romulus, Krum flung open the door to the cabin, revealing the invisibility cloak, lying on the floor, the gigantic dinging room chairs, and the Greyillivian Responder. "The invisibility cloak belonged to a friend of Her-my-oh-ninny's," he said, quiet accusation on his face. 

"So?" Romulus added, thinking only of the best way to disentangle himself so he could flee this Scottish hellhole. Krum said nothing, staring at the Greyillivian Responder. Romulus saw comprehension dawn on his face, saw him reach for the tube... "No!" he yelled, gripping onto Krum's back. But it was too late, in less than a moment, they were both gone. 

----

Seven paces across. 

His whole world, his entire reckoning, had been reduced to 7 paces across, all cased in by walls of stone, too thick, too sturdy to ever fall. He was sundered completely from the outside world. 

The sunlight shied away from his dank cell. The cool breeze was replaced by dirty air, passed all too many times through the lungs of damned men. And the sounds-- the screams, the wails. He could not even begin to express the horror of those sounds. 

And he was alone. 

The last human he had seen was the warden who had brought him in, and remarked, on an offhand note, that he now held residence in the call that Sirius Black had occupied until his escape. He had laughed then, at the irony. And then, the heavy door had slammed shut, the key turned forever in the lock... 

He didn't laugh anymore. 

There was no laughter in Azkaban. 

----

well that's just your daily dose of sunshine, eh? thanks to all that the harry potter love test (64 and counting… though I'm sure none of you are reading this so why do I bother :O) ). I apologize for that little dip into the world of cliches, but who can resist once in a while :O). so an even bigger and more special thanks for those who reviewed the last chapter and to juliana who didn't review but is just cool :O), trinity day, franimal, brownie, viktor'sgurl, leef, kali ma, silimay, tia'rahu, julie, erica, alicia/ sue spinnet, rowena (extra kudos for betaing :O) ), aragog, and last but definatly not least, NS. OH! and for anyone who cares, I have nothing against Charlie Parker, Sirius just dosen't like him. And I DO own all the Harry Potter characters so go ahead and sue me. next up, lucius malfoy is evil, lotsa romulus/remus flashbacks, and russell crowe (gladiator) runs off with hermione. or not. anyway, that's enough out of me go read something else you lazy lugs, or review and make me smile. ciao. 


	6. Mordred

****

PHOENIX ASCENDING VI-- MORDRED

His first thought was that it was hot. 

The second, that it was sandy. 

And the third, that he had never been more lost in his life. 

Remus Lupin staggered drunkenly to his feet, feeling as if he had literally been pulled through the eye of a needle, stampeded by a herd of rabid elephants, and churned through a food processor all in less than ten seconds flat. 

"Where are we?" Vix sat in the sand beside him, an equally dazed expression on her face. 

"A desert," Remus replied, the obvious the only thing he had to hold on to. The dunes seemed to go on forever, the unending sea of sand willing his mind to accept what his reason could not. 

Sirius appeared over the crest of one of the dunes, a small shiny object in his hand. Remus was about to walk over to him, but there was something in Padfoot's manner that made him pause. The set of his jaw, the way he held his shoulders: in short. Remus had never seen Sirius look more angry in all his life. He strode over to the two of them and dropped whatever he had been holding onto the sand. It was a penknife. "I gave this to Harry last year," Sirius said quietly, his voice a forced even. 

----

__

Three hours earlier...

They could do nothing but wait, watching the approaching caravan with a mixed sense of hope and foreboding. If he concentrated hard, Harry was able to discern several figures on horseback. The blinding sun was playing at long thin objects bound to their waist and bouncing off again in rainbow-prism beams of light. Staring closer, Harry felt wave of dread wash over him when he realized what was reflecting the sunlight. "Swords," he whispered. 

"What?" Hermione turned to him, her face red from the heat. 

"They have swords," Harry repeated. "Tied to their waist." 

Ron immediately sat up, his face flushed under his freckles. "I don't know if waiting is a good idea." 

"We don't have any other options," Hermione bit her lip, fiddling with a strand of hair. 

Hermione was right; the caravan riders were now only a few hundred yards away and the distance was decreasing with every stride of their long limned Arabian steeds. The lead horseman's face was covered almost completely by a scarf, so that only his eyes were visible, two flashing pinpricks of brown in a face as dark as his russet stallion. His comrades, six in all, were similarly attired, dressed in what looked like the cross between a bathrobe and a bed-sheet, flapping loose behind them in the wind. Tied to each's waist was a wickedly long sword, all seven glinting maliciously at Harry. "I feel like someone out of Laurence of Arabia," he said quietly as he stood up to get a better look at the horsemen. 

"What?" Ron asked blankly. 

Harry was so fixated on the riders that he didn't even bother to reply. Reaching deep into the pocket of his Hogwarts robes, he pulled out the penknife Sirius had given him for Christmas the year before. It was a paltry defense against the great sabers, but it felt better than nothing at all. Besides, the penknife somehow made Harry feel safer, more at home, like Sirius was somehow close by. 

The smell of horseflesh got clearer as the riders came to a halt a few paces before Harry, Ron, and Hermione, the dust kicked up by their horse's heels settling in a tiny cloud around their hoofs. The leader vaulted off his mount in one fluid motion and regarded them with what Harry's could only guess was mild curiosity. Harry set his jaw and stood tall, in what he hoped was an intimidating fashion. "Hello," he said, trying to ignore the fact that his hands were trembling. 

The horseman said nothing in reply, instead turning to Hermione and locking gazes. She turned white under his stare, but held her ground firmly with a defiant gleam in her eye. Eventually the horseman left her too, and fixed his eyes upon Ron. The Weasley went redder than his carrot-top hair. But, after what seemed an eternity, the horseman turned too from Ron and fixed his gaze upon Harry. His first though was how very small he felt under the nomad's iron stare. Nothing went unnoticed, he felt as if the rider knew everything about him, each dream, every ambition, every deep-down-hidden-embarrassing-squelching-little detail. He felt more naked and helpless under the rider's gaze than he had ever felt in his entire existence. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The horseman suddenly looked away his white scarf still masking his face, making any sort of expression unreadable. Whatever the rider had hoped to test in Harry, he hoped desperately that he had passed. 

The horseman reached out one gloved hand and ever so gently placed it upon Harry's forehead, running his fingers up and down his lightening scar. If the veil had been lifted from the rider's features, Harry would have sworn that he would have been smiling. Normally Harry would have told the rider to shove off, but right now he was too scared out of his wits to even thinking about making a fuss.

"How much?" The rider had turned to address Hermione; his gravely voice hard upon Harry's ears. 

Hermione paled in horror, backing away from the desert horseman. 

"How much?" the rider repeated, a touch of annoyance creeping into his gritty tone. 

"What? What is it?" Ron said in amazement to Hermione, who looked about ready to burst into tears. 

"Oh Ron, don't you see?" She bit her lip again, her voice wavering. "He wants to buy Harry!" 

"What?" Throwing all pretense aside, Harry jerked out from the horseman's grasp. "No!" 

Everything happened at once. I was as if he was watching himself from 1000 miles away, kicking futilely in the horseman's grip. He saw Ron draw out his wand in a desperate attempt at rescue. He heard Hermione's scream, echoing shrilly across the deserted dunes. But in all truth, there was nothing any of them could do. 

Harry's last conscious thought as the flat of the blade came down upon his head was a feeling of utter hopelessness. Then through the darkness, a dream came. 

...._The snow swirled in tiny eddies around Harry's ankles as the bitter wind whipped around his frame, biting him deep and through to the bone with harsh intense cold. The frozen landscape burned his eyes, stretching as far as the eye could travel in an endless mesa of undying white. And then, where there had only been snow and ice, the standing stones appeared, encircling him once again, the shadows cast by their dark menacing forms staining the virgin white of the snow. Harry was standing next a large slab of stone positioned in the absolute center of the ring of stones which could only be an altar. On the other side, hidden partially in the shadow of one of the stone monoliths, a man stood. _

His face: indiscernible, hidden by the folds of his deep black hood, but the position of his hand: unmistakable, its white fingers were clenched around the hilt of a long broadsword. 

Harry felt his hands move of their own accord, his finger's tightening around the sword bound to his own waist, a sword he didn't even know he had. And still, the snow swirled about their ankles. 

"Where's your army now?" the figure said from his position on the other side of the altar. "Where's your French whore to help you stand?" 

"My French whore is a better man than you will ever be," Harry felt his mouth form the words as his conscious mind reeled in absolute confusion. His was not his voice, his was not his sword, this battle was not his. 

"And that's how I won," the man hissed, his only outward sign of tension the fingers tightening around the sword bound at his hip. 

"Not yet!" Harry, or whatever he had become, gripped the pommel of his own blade and brought it out of its sheath, the metal flashing in bright sunlight. The man gave a laugh, a long threatening rumble, and reached for his own sword, bringing it down hard to meet Harry's own with a sickening scrape of metal upon metal. They broke away almost as quickly as they had met, Harry staggering somewhat under the weight of his blade. 

Or so he thought. The snow, which had once been so pure and white beneath his feet, was covered in blotchy stains of red. Looking down, Harry saw that his entire left side was covered in blood, seeping through a slash on his leather breastplate that he supposed traveled much deeper than the superficial wounds to his clothing. It ached him with an odd, detached kind of pain, a pain somewhat numbed by his undying disbelief. 

This could not be happening. 

The hooded figure had seen the wound too, and he gave an appreciative chuckle. "My men did well." 

"Your men," the Harry that was somehow not, gritted his teeth, leaning out and meeting his opponent's blade with his own. "Are traitors." 

"My men," the swordsman bore down upon him, lashing forwards with his sword as Harry managed to just barely leap out of the way, "understand that the weak cannot rule." 

Harry was beginning to feel an undeniable anger well up at the root of soul. "Is that so?" he asked, hate tempering his aim as he parried another one of the figure's wild swings. 

The man laughed harshly, "Oh, it is so. It is more so than you can ever begin to imagine." Harry wasn't about to imagine what he was dealing with. Instead, he relied on the discipline of almost loosing his life countless times accepting the unacceptable situation blindly and pressing on, meeting each one of the hooded man's blows with one of his own. Still, that horrible awful anger, that hate against this man crept in upon his consciousness, fraying Harry around the edges. He wanted to hurt his opponent more that he had ever hurt anyone in his life. Somehow, somewhere, beyond any memory, he recognized this man: recognized him, and hated the acquaintance. Biting his lip so hard that it bled, Harry gave into the side that was-not-quite-him, the side that knew the hooded figure standing before him, knew how to fight, the side that knew what was going on. 

It was as if he had liquid fire flowing through his veins, for the sword moved of its own accord, and Harry was powerless to do anything but blindly follow, thrusting, parrying, going forward and back in an undying dance. His opponent matched his every move, and the two swords meeting so frequently and with such ferocity that sparks flew, hissing as they hit the snow. They moved around the altar, blades never stopping, neither one able to get closer to the other, the bloodlust locked in both psyches. For some unexplainable reason, Harry wanted nothing more than the figure's lifeblood, for he hated him with a passion unmatched by anything he had ever felt before in all of his fifteen years. 

And still their swords met. 

And yet the sparks flew. 

Then, Harry slipped. His feet hit a patch of ice and flew out from under him; he lost the grip on his precious sword, sliding face first into the snow as his arm smashed against the stone altar. He heard a loud crack and knew with a stabbing pain that it was broken. 

The man stepped over his, his expression of triumph veiled by the depths of his black hood. "You're powerless without Taliesen, duLuc, Gawain, Morgan..." He bent down over Harry's quivering body, his hood dropping even further over his pale face so that only his chin was visible. "It's just you and me... and I've won." The man was so close that Harry could feel his hot breath upon his cheek. "I never wanted this," the figure said, his voice softening slightly as Harry's heart beat out a race of untapped rage. "I never wanted Gawain to die. I never wanted the Battle of Joyous Garde, I never wanted Camallan. All I ever wanted," his voice dropped to the merest whisper, his breath freezing on the cold winter air. "Was your love, father." 

And then the man's hood fell back, revealing a face Harry knew all too well, it's silvery hair sweaty and askew, gray eyes blazing in pure hatred, its pale lines sharp and patrician. Draco Malfoy smiled. 

But the name rising in not-quite-Harry's mind had nothing to do with the Slytherin fifth year he knew, so far away. It was a name from a life much older than that, a name that had haunted him through centuries, a name that expressed everything he had always stood against and hated: "Mordred." 

"Rex Quondom Rexque Futurus," Mordred said quietly to Harry as he stood up, his pale face hardening with every second, "We'll see..." 

He raised his great broadsword high above his head, the edge of its blade catching the sun's gleam-- and then all went black... 

...Harry awoke in what could have been a dream. His entire vision was clouded by a burlap sack and his body was racked up and down, forward and back, by the canter of a giant horse. He tried to cry out, but his voice wouldn't come. Futilely, he reached out for the grains of his dream, watching as they slid through his fingers like liquid memory, all the details blending into one huge blob that hovered just out of his grasp. There was Draco, and snow, and swords, and someone... someone he knew, someone terribly important that he had to remember, but for the life of him couldn't even begin to grasp. So he gave up trying to hold onto what he's rather forget. Instead he lapsed into a haunted sleep, deep, with the memories of 1000 deaths to keep him company. 

----

The desert sun shone hard upon two figures lost in a sea of sand. Ron pulled himself up into a sitting position, from where one of the seven riders had thrown him. "We have to go after Harry, Hermione," he said firmly, getting to his feet.

"We have to find help," she said, her long curly hair waving in the breeze. "Someone that knows what to do. Someone that can get us home. Look at those horsemen, Ron! It's impossible, we wouldn't stand a chance--" 

"No," Ron said more firmly, getting to his feet. He winced slightly as he looked off into the horizon where the horsemen had ridden. "We have to rescue Harry," Ron took a few steps forward before turning back to Hermione, who was standing next to the dune nervously, torn between loyalty to her friend and fear of the unknown. "He'd do the same for us." She followed him.

----

Viktor hurt. No, hurt was defiantly an understatement. Viktor ached. Ached so badly it felt that every square inch of his body was screaming in agony. He hadn't felt this bad since colliding head on with a bludger during the Quiddich World Cup. But then again, falling face first at incalculable speeds into a monstrous sand dune really does wonders for cultivating bruises. 

OOF! And if to make matters worse, a full-grown man just collapsed on top of him. "Moovoff--" He managed to garble, not being very successful due to the fact that he had more sand in is mouth than tongue. Maybe Viktor was psychic or maybe it was just a handful of sandy luck but the man got the message. He scrambled off Viktor, managing to elbow him in some very painful spots, and the star of International Quiddich was finally to struggle to his knees, sore, sour, sandy and more lost than he could even begin to imagine. 

"Vhere are ve?" he turned to the man who had so considerately crushed his ribcage, seeing without the slightest surprise that it was Romulus Lupin. 

"Hello," a new voice broke in and Viktor and Romulus wheeled around in shock to see a incredibly thin man in long loose robes sitting by a cooking fire, a horse chewing absently on his hair and a leg of some unidentifiable meant dangling from one hand. He gave them a rather bemused grin, "I'd imagine you'd be hungry. Ostrich?" 

"Vho are you?" Viktor felt a sense of absolute amazement and disbelief crash over him at this new stranger, calmly sitting by his fire offering them ostrich. 

"They call me Posthumous," he said without blinking an eyelash. "Though on account of you dropping from the sky, I believe I'm entitled to a name or two," the man said this all very calmly, with an almost unnerving smile on his face. 

"I'm Viktor Krum," Viktor said quietly, the disbelief still washing through his veins. "This is--" 

"Romulus Lupin," Romulus snarled, giving Viktor a warning glare. "Where's the ostrich?" 

"Ah! A man who is governed by his belly," Posthumous said with a friendly sort of grin as he reached into the cookpot and pulled out what looked like a cross between a haunch and a ribcage. "Enjoy, eh?" 

Romulus made no reply as he snatched the meat out of Posthumous's outstretched hand and began gnawing voraciously. 

"Ostrich?" Posthumous, seemingly unfazed by Romulus's lack of gratitude, had once again thrust his hand into the pot and was holding out another unidentifiable body part to Viktor. His stomach really was growling, and it had been hours since lunch in the Great Hall, but there was something almost sinister about the dripping bloody piece of meat that made him pause. Ostrich. Giving into the growls of his stomach he reached out a tentative hand and took the dripping food. It couldn't be worse than anything they had served in Customs. 

Posthumous leaned back against his horse, gnawing avidly on his leg. "You're not from around these parts, eh?" He said this all very calmly, as if people dropped out of the sky on regular intervals. 

"Vhere is here?" Viktor asked, shaking his head, still in somewhat of a daze. 

"We're about 200 leagues south of Carthage, in the province of Numidia," Posthumous replied, his green eyes calm in the flickering firelight. 

Numidia... Carthage... province? The words meant nothing to Viktor, only causing his head to spin further, but Romulus, sitting a little bit removed from the other two, suddenly dropped his ostrich in the sand, his jaw falling likewise. He jerked forward and met Posthumous's cool stare, "What year is it?" 

"Three years since Tiberius Augstus ascended the throne," Posthumous replied, a flicker of anger passing across his face, buoyed by the gentle glow of firelight. But then, like a mere spark in the embers it was gone, replaced by a his calm unruffled facade. "784 years since the founding of the city."

"Vhat city?" Viktor said, a wave of fear crossing over him as he saw the look of absolute horror on Romulus's face.

"Rome. We're in the Roman Empire." Romulus said, spitting the words out like something dirty. "It's 35 AD, Krum." He turned to Posthumous, still sitting calmly by his horse and gave a hollow laugh, the fire casting his features into gaunt relief. "Yes... we're not from around here."

----

Gabriel was heading home. After showing Viktor Krum to the dungeons, he was just about as ready to get out of Hogwarts as any seventh year. Praising the 24 period when the apparition wards were down, Gabriel appeared in front of his own flat with a slight whoosh of air. Plan A was to make a B-line for his bed. It wasn't as if Hogwarts hadn't been comfortable, but Gabriel had been up all night running Mad-Eye Moody's warning over and over again in his head. _You so much as breathe, and I know. _He had no doubt that the old auror was as good as his word. How could he seriously believe that he had murdered Cornelius Fudge? How dare he even suppose? Gabriel would make no pretense of liking his uncle, but occasional arguments were nothing compared to what Moody was accusing him of. But then again, Moody wasn't so much accusing _him _as someone twenty years dead. _It's my father's legacy, _Gabriel though bitterly leaning against the hard wood of his door, _my only inheritance. _His ragged smile was almost bitter. _Like father, like son_. Moody was wrong of course, but his accusations had brought thoughts of doubt to Gabriel's until now firm resolution. How far would he go to protect Dumbledore's rag-tag group? How far would he go before breaking, giving in? 

Bed. 

He needed sleep. He could moralize later. Heaving a deep sigh, Gabriel fit his wand into the keyhole and turned it once. The door flew open with a slight pop.

Home at last. It's impossible to overstate the significance of a familiar room, safe haven, and warm bed when you're tired, scared, and royally pissed off. In spite of everything: Moody, Lucifer, Cornelius, Gabriel felt himself smile. Shutting the door behind him, he sunk into a particularly squashy armchair by the empty fireplace. 

"Incidio," Gabriel murmured lazily, watching with satisfaction as the flames welled up out of this air, crackling merrily as they let out a halo of warmth. Yes, it was defiantly good to be home. 

"Gabriel," he spun around, mouth dropping at the woman behind him. 

"Hilly Constantine?" he grinned, leaping out of the chair, energy instantly renewed. "It's been what? Five years?" 

"Seven," she replied, flicking her blonde hair lazily as she smiled back at him, "I haven't seen you since graduation from Hogwarts." 

"Seven years," Gabriel cocked his head, amazed. It seemed like only yesterday he had been in the Gryffindor common room with Hilly, or walking along the shores of the lake, looking for the giant squid. He even remembered the time they had convinced Bill Weasley to streak through the Forbidden Forest. 

"I don't have anytime for reunions," she replied, her pleasant face instantly growing dark. "Severus Snape has been arrested for the murder of Cornelius Fudge, but there's been a petition to keep the case open and Minister Malfoy feels obligated to explore all of the possibilities--" 

"It's Mad-Eye Moody's petition, isn't it?" Gabriel said bitterly, instantly reading into the meaning behind her words. Hilly was never any good at lying. 

She but her lip, "Minister Malfoy is just trying to be thorough, Gabriel--" 

"And what does Minister Malfoy want from me?" he spat, his voice cracking with anger. 

"He wants to run a blood test--" she began. 

"God dammit!" he threw his hand up into the air, leaning against the fireplace. 

"He want's to run a blood test," she continued hesitantly, not wanting to set Gabriel off again. "Current tests show that the blood that LUCIFER was written in isn't entirely Mr. Fudge's. Some of the Ministry pathologists believe that the killer cut himself several times while writing on Mr. Fudge's cadaver. They plan to isolate the blood and run tests against a group of samples and see if any match up--" 

"I didn't murder Cornelius Fudge!" Gabriel said slowly, gritting his teeth. 

"No one's saying you did," Hilly said quietly, taking a crystalline vial out of the pocket of her robes. 

"Well Minister Malfoy is getting damn close," Gabriel exploded, sarcasm leaking out of every ounce of his voice. 

"I need to take your blood, Gabriel," Hilly said quietly. 

Wordlessly, he thrust out his arm, watching her as she dug the point of a silver dagger into the fleshy heel of his palm, letting the blood drip into here empty crystal vial, before covering the wound with a swath of gauze she dug out from the depths of her pocket. "I didn't kill Cornelius Fudge," Gabriel said quietly, a twinge of desperation in his voice. "You know I wouldn't, Hilly." 

"I know you wouldn't," she said quietly, slipping the vial into the pocket of her robes. "But I'm not the Ministry." Gabriel said nothing, turning moodily towards the crackling flames. "I'll owl you when the results come back in," Hilly said, watching his back as she made for the door. "Someone had left these outside, I brought then in for you," she gestured at a vase of flowers, now sitting on Gabriel's kitchen table. He gave them a distasteful stare. They seemed too bright, too cheery for his present mood. He didn't so much as respond when Hilly disapperated with a faint swoosh of air. 

Pacing up and down, Gabriel realized he would wear a hole in the floor if he did not act. His eyes traveled across the room and lingered upon a bright splash of color: the flowers Hilly had brought in. Their cheery disposition seemed not only annoying to him now but somehow, incredibly sinister. A few paces had him to the table, where he could examine them more carefully. They were sitting next to a recent issue of the Daily Prophet which's headline read: _JOHN AVERY, THE ULTRA-CONSERVATIVE-FORMER-DEATH-EATER, IS MINSTER MALFOY's YET-TO-BE-CONFIRMED PICK FOR HEAD OF THE DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT_. Gabriel's mind, however, was far from the confirmation hearings of John Avery as he bent towards the vase of flowers. Tentatively, he extended a hand to brush at one of the blooms, its pink petals winking innocently at him. 

It was as if an electric shock hit him, the bitter jolt if pain rushing up his arm, past his shoulder and straight to his head where it began to throb, over and over and over and over...

Gabriel's eyes started to swim as the flowers dipped in and out of focus, multiplying and them melding back into a whole as his brain reeled in throws of agony. A patch of white lying by the enchanted vase was the only thing that remained steady. Gabriel extended a trembling hand and caught it before pulling it about an inch from his face so that his watering eyes could focus on the spider-web script that spread across it. 

I'm watching you, Cox. 

With a roar to match the throbbing between his temples, Gabriel gripped the slick sides of the vase, unheeding of the raw burst of flame that leapt from it's enchanted sides, scorching the skin of his palm. He hurled the pot of flowers against the wall of his flat, falling to his knees as it shattered and fell to the ground in a cloud of pottery shards and wads of dirt. 

----

RAPPA-TAPPA-TAP

RAPPA-TAPPA-TAP

Minerva McGonagall was awakened by the scraping of claws against the window. Leaping out of bed, she groped wildly in through the darkness for her wand. "Lumos," she whispered, and her room was instantly illuminated by the dim magic light. Sidestepping yesterday's robes, thrown helter-skelter on the floor, she walked to the window and threw open the latch. 

"KAW!" An enormous dark bird flapped across the sill and deposited a letter onto her lap with a squawk. Squinting through the semi-darkness, Minerva realized that it wasn't an owl...

The raven turned its sleek head and gave her an evil stare, its menacing yellow eyes narrowing. Silently, it opened its gigantic black wings and flew back out through the window, vanishing into the darkness of the night. In spite of herself, Minerva felt a shiver creep up her spine. 

Under the shadow of foreboding, she reached over to her bedside table for a pair of silver-framed reading glasses. As Minerva raised the letter to her eyes, she dropped her wand in shock, the tiny ball of enchanted light going out as it hit the ground, plunging her world into darkness...

...She rushed through the Hogwarts halls, running as she never had before. Her slippers flapped in and uneven rhythm along the paving stones as her normally severe hair streamed out behind her like a flag. After what seemed an eternity, she reached the gargoyle and began slamming it with her fist. "Grack! Grack! Wake up!" 

"What is it?" The Gargoyle opened his eyes halfway, letting out a sleepy growl. "Go away, I don't want to talk to you." 

"Fizzing Whizbees!" Minerva shrieked, waving the letter in her hand as she jumped up and down in frustration. "I need to see Professor Dumbledore!" 

"No you don't," Grack's granite lips twisted into a stony smirk. "You really don't want to know what he does up there at night, all alone--" 

"Grack!" Minerva nailed him with one of her stern looks that could crack stone. In fact, it did, for Grack gave a disgruntled yawn of defeat. 

"Suit yourself," he growled, his eyes drooping with exhaustion, "Don't say I didn't warn you." 

Minerva didn't even bother to reply as she streamed up the stairs and into Dumbledore's office, the sound of chamber music getting ever louder as she took the stairs two at a time. 

He was sitting at a harpsichord, back to the door. His fingers waltzed across the keys, playing out a melody first conceived by a composer long since dead and gone. 

At the sound of her footfalls, he stopped but didn't turn around, still gazing wistfully the instrument. "I often find music an easy escape from the worries of the world, Minerva," he said quietly, his fingers lingering longingly on the bone-white keys. "It comes straight from the soul, and from that comes humanity's greatest beauty." 

"We've received a letter, Albus," she said quietly, her glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose. "Lucius Malfoy has a warrant for your arrest." 

__

sorry it took me so long to get out, but oliver! has been eating up my life lately, and now its finally over ::sniff sniff::, anyway thanks to all that have reviewed, and all who have read and not reviewed (please do so now), I hope you have a wonderful February and g'night :O) 


	7. Just South of Bittersweet

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Up in record time :O). Hugs and thanks to everyone who reviewed the last one and kisses to all who do the same for this. Special thanks to Rowena, who though sick with the flu is still churning out wonderful stories and managing to beta mine. The basis of the Remus/Vix conversation at the end is in China Doll for those of you who haven't read it, and Ginny doesn't refer to Ron's sister, but a nickname for Guinevere. Once again please R/R and love you all :O). 

PHOENIX ASCENDING VII- JUST SOUTH OF BITTERSWEET

He whipped through the dank office building like a man aflame, and in all truth he was, the anger that fueled his flight also clouded his brow, darkening his features as his feet rushed of their own accord, beating out a pitter-patter rhythm on the government-issue linoleum. It seemed to take him no time at all to reach the heavy oaken door, and when he raised his fist to knock, it swung open of its own accord. From within, a voice slithered out, its silky tones filling his ears, cloying his senses. "Come in, Mr. Cox."   


Gabriel took a step through the door, trying to ignore the horribly sinking sensation that had just hit him in-between his ribs. "What is the meaning of this?" He thrust his hand out towards the desk, its fingers red and puffy, the palm charred 'til it was almost black   


The tall thin man wheeled his chair around and stared at the palm with detached interest, a cloud of cigarette smoke hovering around his head like some ghastly imitation halo. "A most unfortunate occurrence."   


"You sanctioned it," Gabriel spat, his face turning red. "You approved Moody's petition to reopen the case."   


"Moody is simply a pawn," Lucius Malfoy gave a simpering smile as he took a long drag on his cigarette. "Do not take his antics too seriously."   


"His antics will drive me insane," Gabriel replied bitterly.   


"Oh, let an old man have his fun," Malfoy gave a catlike grin. "Besides, I like to investigate all of the opportunities."   


"You like to intimidate anyone that stands against you and your master," Gabriel hissed, smashing his good hand on Malfoy's mahogany desk.   


Malfoy's pale fish-eyes narrowed, his voice turning to a barely audible hiss, "What are you implying?"   


"I'm not stupid," Gabriel growled.   


"Neither am I," Malfoy took the cigarette out of his mouth and without another word smashed it down upon Gabriel's blackened palm, causing him to cry out in shock and pain. "It's too bad, your family has done so well for us in the past."   


"Leave me alone," Gabriel said harshly, gritting his teeth as he jerked his injured palm off of Malfoy's desk. "That's all I want."   


"But that's just it," Malfoy hissed, his silvery-blonde hair falling across his forehead. "We can't. You're worth more than you know."   


"So I'm one of your pawns too?" Gabriel spat bitterly.   


"We're all pawns," Malfoy lit another cigarette, blowing a fresh cloud of smoke at Gabriel before continuing. "Some of us just know the king."   


"I'm going," Gabriel said firmly, taking a step backwards towards the heavy door. "Leave me alone."   


"Give me a ring, if Dumbledore doesn't come through for you," Malfoy smiled, showing all of his immaculate teeth. "We'll always have a place for our Lucifer." Gabriel backed away in horror, but even the heavy door couldn't keep out the sounds of Malfoy's laughter. 

----

__

The man with the red hair winked before pulling on his green helmet and turning to face his opponent. 

It was then that Harry realized that he was having another dream. 

He was a single man in a crowd of hundreds, clustered around a meadow lying in the shadow of a huge stone castle. In the center of the ring, two knights paced: one in green, one in blue, each holding his own naked sword, ready and waiting to drive it into the flesh of his opponent. Of the two knights in the center of the ring, only one of them would ever leave the field alive. Afterwards, Harry could never say how he knew this, but he was quickly learning that there was never any certainty to his dreams. And this mysterious unwanted knowledge was telling him one more thing. He didn't want this fight to happen.

Too late. The knights lunged forward and their swords met, sending a shower of sparks off into the meadow. The green knight moved backwards a few steps as he parried a thrust made by the one in blue. "Foolish." 

Harry turned at the sound of the voice, his eyes falling upon an armored man standing beside him. "How so?" he asked, hoping to find more answers than those his fickle "memory" provided. The knight's great swords met once again as the two men locked gazes. After an heart-pounding minute, the green knight threw the blue one out of the deadlock. Both staggered back a few paces before regaining their balance. 

"No woman is worth this much," the armored man replied without looking up. "To turn such friends into bitter enemies." The blue knight leapt onto the offensive, his sword moving like a lighting tongue as he closed in upon the green. 

Harry said nothing in reply, his mind boiling over what little information he had gleaned. The green knight was still parrying the blue's blows but he was obviously tiring as his movements became more and more clumsy. The crowd let out a great roar as the blue finally broke through the green's guard and drew first blood, knicking his opponent on his shoulder. 

"Mark one up for Lancelot," the man on his side said gruffly. "I had it on four to one odds that Gawain would draw first blood." The green knight, Gawain, seemed to be loosing ground sharply, as Lancelot, the blue, showered him with countless blows. He was unable to block them all, slipping further and further away from victory with every new nick of Lancelot's sword. 

"You're betting on this fight?" Harry found it hard to hide the disgust in his voice as he saw the green knight fall backwards, sliding on a pool of his own blood. 

"It's over," the stranger said apathetically. "Lancelot has won. I lost 400 denariis." Lancelot raised his sword over his head and brought it down hard into the man lying at his feet. Gawain let out a great cry as his hand rushed to his side, futility trying to staunch the tidal wave of blood. Harry though he might be sick from all the living gore, seeping onto the grass of the idyllic meadow, the green and red mixing to become an unidentifiable shade of brown. But then, Lancelot did something completely unexpected. 

Collapsing onto his knees, the blue knight picked up the head of his fallen opponent and cradled it gently. Somehow, Lancelot's hands found his neck and he unfastened his helmet, sliding it away. There were tears running down his cheeks. But this was not the reason that made Harry cry out, made Harry break away from the rest of the crowd and rush to the field to kneel along with the two men who had just finished their macabre game of killing. The tears coursing down Lancelot's face were insignificant to the features themselves, features Harry knew all too well. The blue knight was Sirius. Before he knew what was happening Harry was there beside them, staring down at the man close to death, a man Sirius had rent open mere seconds earlier. 

To Harry's surprise, Sirius seemed to know him, and when he spoke his tone was not one of anger, or hate, or enmity. Instead his voice spoke of nothing but pure, untapped sorrow. "I never meant for it to turn out this way," he said quietly, speaking with a slight accent. "I never wanted this. I never wanted to kill him. I don't want to kill you." 

"I know, Lance. I know." Harry said, and try as he might he could find no anger within himself towards this man: Lancelot, a Sirius who was-not-quite.

Harry bent down to face the dying knight, a man who had been called Gawain. He knew, without knowing quite how, what would await him there as he pulled of the helmet, but it didn't make the shock any less. 

Ron smiled up at him, his eyes already far away. "It's been a while, eh?" he managed to grin as his body was racked with a spasm of pain. 

"Don't go," Harry was instantly unaware of everything but the body before him, his best friend about to die. "Don't go, please..." 

"I sometimes wonder," Ron remarked, his voice a forced calm. "What would have happened if we hadn't tried to burn Ginny at the stake. Would I be here now, leaking my guts all over this meadow?" 

Harry tried to laugh, but it wouldn't come. There was a lump in his throat that wouldn't dislodge, a hole in heart that made it impossible to even try and smile. 

"I should say.... something inspirational... since I'm dying?" Ron paused with obvious effort, trying to get his words. But with every fleeting second his face grew more waxen. "There, don't cry," Ron said, as Harry noticed for the first time, the salt tears weaving their ways down his cheek. "What kind of a king... will people think... you are?" 

And then he was gone. 

As Harry looked up, his vision clouded by tears, a terrible hole in his breast he knew would never quite mend, he realized that Lancelot, the crowd, the castle were all gone. He was alone in the pastoral meadow, with only Ron's body for company. But when he bent down to take one last look at his friend, he screamed out loud. Cradled in his arms was the corpse of Cedric Diggory. 

----

As Anan turned away from the teenager with the black hair and the lightening scar, he had no idea what dark dreams were presently coursing through the boy's head. He only saw a sleeping youth, his eyes closed and his slumber supposedly free of any trouble. Anan didn't quite know what had possessed him to take the boy; he wouldn't fetch much a slave, being too slim and lanky to last long in the mines or gladiator ring. But at the same time, the youth didn't have the drop-dead good looks that could land him a place in a patrician household. There was just something about the boy, something Anan couldn't quite place his finger on. Perhaps it was the brilliant green eyes, or the fierce set of his chin, or maybe, just maybe that lightening scar that laced down his forehead like a bolt from heaven.

There was also the matter of the boy's origins. The boy spoke Latin with an accent unlike which any Anan had ever heard, and he was known among his wandering people as a man who had seen many lands. The youth's garb was strange, certainly not of the desert, but also unlike that of the Numidians to the south and the Romans in the north. On his person, the boy had carried a slender stick of wood that made odd sparks and noises when his men had handled it, but when they thrust it into the fire, wouldn't burn. 

Yes, this boy was defiantly an enigma, Anan couldn't help but wonder if he had made the right choice in picking him up. 

"Anan?" 

The horseman turned away from the sleeping boy towards the new voice, his hand instinctively on the pommel of his sword. But when he recognized the speaker, his face relaxed and he even let loose a rare smile. "Innoch." 

Innoch was the youngest of Anan's six horsemen, but not young enough to be without a family. It had been two years since Innoch had married Anan's eldest daughter, and the bond between the two men had done nothing but grow over that time. "Bad news," Innoch slid in beside Anan, glancing disinterestedly at the sleeping boy. 

"What is it now?" Anan asked, his weather-beaten face lining with worry. 

"Some of our outlying settlements were attacked again. None of the livestock were touched, but the bandits made off with five children." Innoch paused before continuing. "A man from the villages rode two days to find us." 

"That's twenty children the bandits have taken in the last month," Anan said quietly. "What do they want with them?"

"No one knows," Innoch's tone was equally hopeless, though each of them knew the other was suspecting the worse. The young man paused a moment before continuing. "I have heard evil rumors, tales that these bandits are child-killers. They say that that these men are constructing a fortress built on the bones of our infants, a place of dark magic where only evil can enter."

"You've heard rumors, Innoch," Anan said forcefully, unsuccessfully trying to keep the frustration at such nonsense out of his tone. "Did the man from the villages see the bandits? Are they the same?" 

"Exactly as before," Innoch replied, "Their faces were covered in black, and none of the villagers cold tell any of the bandits from each of his companions except for their leader, who has a silver hand." 

---

"Lucius Malfoy has a warrant for your arrest," Minerva's voice was trembling as she clutched the raven's letter in her hand. "He sent the letter himself, demanding that you stay on school grounds." 

"And what may I ask," Dumbledore said quietly, "am I arrested for?" 

"High treason." Minerva held up the letter, its ink run with her sweat. "Malfoy claims you're the leader of a coup to take over the Ministry." 

Dumbledore said nothing, his aged face locked in a pensive mask of concentration. 

"You can't stay here, Albus," her voice was cracking with absolute terror. Everything they had worked for was gone in the mere blink of an instant. Dumbledore, her bulwark against the incoming flood of dark magic had finally been breached. Every word pained her, for she wanted nothing more than to have him stay. "You can't let them take you."

"I'll go where they need me most," he said cryptically, the light gone from his blue eyes. "Never far from this school, Minerva." 

"Albus..." she couldn't stop the single tear creeping down her cheek, betraying the fear and doubt she was feeling inside. 

"Shhh," he reached out a single hand. "I'm entrusting Hogwarts to you, Minerva, because, above all, you are who I most trust, and this school must never fall. This school is our children. Our future." 

"I won't let you down," she said, wiping at her eyes, trying to regain some semblance of self control. 

"I know." Dumbledore heaved a great sigh as he pushed himself away from the harpsichord, his eyes straying upon it longingly one last time. "It has begun." 

Minerva wasn't sure that she wanted to know the answer, but the question came from her lips never-the-less. "What has begun?"

"The war," Dumbledore's smile was a touch south of bittersweet. "The war." 

----

Ron's feet seemed to move of their own accord as he stumbled across the desert. Even after Hermione had transfigured her hat into a canteen, he had never felt so hot, so parched, and so utterly hopeless in his entire life. 

They had long since lost the rider's trail, the track left by their steeds seemed to have been swallowed up whole by the desert that lay before them, ever menacing and never ending. The dunes seemed to stretch forever and ever, until they met the sky millions of miles away at the end of the earth. Ron sank to his knees. "What are you doing?" It was Hermione, her curly hair windswept and sandy. It had been so long since a word had passed between them that Ron had simply forgotten she had existed. 

"What are we doing?" he replied, feeling the sunburn on face crack as he moved his lips. "We could just wander around until we die." 

"Harry's out there," she replied, her face growing tight. "Come on, Ron," she extended a hand. "We'll find him and then go home." 

"Find him where?" Go home how?" Ron muttered bitterly, his red hair falling into his eyes. 

Hermione looked down, "I'm sure Dumbledore has noticed we're not at school, and he has to have sent help, right? I mean, you don't just let Harry Potter disappear." 

"We've done a pretty good job at it," Ron sneered, kicking at the sand as he rose to his feet. 

Hermione smiled at him, and despite his aching head, his sunburned body, and the hole that seemed to have permanently fitted itself across his heart, Ron couldn't help but smile back. "Then we have to find him." She reached out her hand, sandy and blistered, "He'd do the same for us, right?" 

Ron's smile widened at the irony. "Where have I heard that before?" 

"A friend of mine told me that," she said, grinning broadly. "My best friend told me that." 

Ron felt himself go red under his sunburn, "Shut up, Hermione." 

"Ron! Hermione!" 

They turned as one towards the new voice, both jaws dropping simultaneously in shock as they called out, "Professor Lupin!" 

----

Sirius was a man possessed. Harry's penknife in hand he had struck out blindly across the desert with nothing more than a feeble Locatés charm for guide, wavering in and out of sight as it lit the path towards his godson. As for Remus and Vix, they could do nothing but blindly follow, the heat, hunger, and hopelessness grinding them double as saw Sirius untouched, his jaw set, his resolution tempered to one goal alone. 

It had been five hours of such mindless trekking across the never-changing dune-scape. Five hours of nothing but sand and starvation and silence. Remus was about to suggest that they stop when he noticed two tiny points of color over the next hillock of sand. Breaking away from Sirius and Vix, he speeded into a run until he reached the crest of the dune and peered over...

"Ron! Hermione!"

They turned as one, calling out "Professor Lupin!" as Vix and Sirius jogged up beside him. 

"Who are they?" Vix stared in bewilderment at the pair of teenagers racing up the slope of the dune like they had hell's hounds on their heels.

"Friends of Harry," Remus managed to reply before they were upon him and Hermione enveloped in a huge bear hug. Ron stood a few paces away, cooling his heels in obvious embarrassment at his friend's affection. 

"We knew Dumbledore would send someone!" she grinned as she broke away. 

Remus exchanged a furtive glance with Sirius, who answered Moony's unspoken question with a nod. "Dumbledore wouldn't leave you out here all alone." The lie was sour to his taste, but he didn't have the heart to let the girl down. "Hermione, Ron, this is Vix Su, a friend. Vix, these and Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley." 

"Nice to meet you," Vix extended a hand and a smile which Hermione took gratefully. 

Sirius, blunt as always, asked the question on every mind. "Where's Harry?" 

Ron looked at Hermione, who bit her lip. "There was nothing we could do, it was awful--"

Ron cut her blather off, his eyes forcibly fixed upon the ground. "We found this tube in Hagrid's cabin--" 

"The Greyvillian Responder," Remus interjected, his Professor side getting the better of him. 

"Right," Ron looked more than slightly confused, but he continued none the less. "What he said. And it took us here. We were sitting on the sand, wondering what to do when we saw this caravan." 

"It had a banner," Hermione took up the tale, pushing a flyaway curl out of her face. "Saying S.P.Q.R., which stands for the motto of Ancient Rome and hasn't been used for over 1600 years, ever since the empire collapsed. So naturally I assumed, as any reasonable person would, that we were in Ancient Rome." 

"And Harry and I thought she was off her rocker," Ron added. 

"We waited for the caravan, because there wasn't really anything else to do," Hermione said a little too quickly, her face going slightly pink from Ron's comment. "And it turned out to be these awful horsemen with great big swords and their leader asked to buy Harry and we said no and--" her voice shook and she looked a little too close to tears to continue on. 

"They took Harry," Ron continued, shooting Hermione a sympathetic look. "Knocked him out, and just rode away. We've been following them ever since. We were going to rescue him somehow." 

"Now you all are all here," Hermione said, a wan smile lighting her strained face. "We'll get him back... right?" 

"Shit," Sirius took a wild step away from the teenagers, his face contorted in worried anger as her obsessively fingered Harry's penknife. "Shit!" And then he proceeded to let loose a string of obscenities so effective that Hermione drew her breath and Ron paled somewhat. 

"Sirius!" Vix took a step forward and slapped him hard across the face. "What the good can you possibly think that will do?"

Sirius stopped almost immediately, his eyes narrowing as he turned to face her. "I say we stop here for the night," she said to him, her tone daring him to disagree. "Everyone's too tired and worked-up to be any good. We'll look for Harry in the morning, you can cast some kind of spell to find him." Her stone was heavy with sarcasm as she kicked a stone towards Sirius. "Here. Turn the rock into bread, I'm hungry." 

Sirius said nothing as he bent down to pick up the rock, the anger radiating from his every inch visible only to Remus. Eye to eye with Vix he tossed the stone over his shoulder, back to where it landed, a sand dune away. "Don't mess with me," he said quietly, the hint of challenge in his tone. "You'll loose." 

----

__

So, you want to see where Lupin goes every month, eh?

Severus crept up against the wall, drawing his knees up to his chest as his eyes focused upon the dark black walls of his prison. 

What's it to you, Black?

Seven by five paces. Nine-hundred and forty-three stones made up its walls. Nine-hundred and forty four if you counted one that was cracked straight down the middle. 

I've taken a liking to you, young fellow. 

Severus wondered if Black had ever counted the number of stones in his cell. Their cell. 

Kiss my ass, Black. 

For the first time in weeks he felt almost calm, helpless as he watched the memory play it self out across his psyche. A memory he would give anything to escape. 

Be at the Whomping Willow at sunset. Press the knot on the trunk. 

Turning to his side, Severus noticed, not for the first time, a tiny inscription in the stone just by his ear. S.O.B. Sirius Orion Black. Son Of a Bitch.

That's out of bounds. 

He wondered how long it had taken Sirius Orion Black to scratch his initials into the inanimate rock of his prison. But then again, time didn't matter in Azkaban. None of them were leaving anytime soon. 

Kiss my ass, Snape. 

Severus lifted his finger to the wall, and despite its trembling traced a letter onto the thick granite wall. S. A long snaky S. Could stand for Slytherin, Sonnavabitch, Soup, Snake, Severus. 

The full moon made it easy to see as he picked his way across Hogwarts's darkened grounds. It wasn't hard to find the willow. It stuck out of the middle of the school's immaculately groomed lawn like an overlarge tumor. An incredibly silent growth. Severus drew his cloak closer to him as he arrived in the willow's shadow, trying to suppress a shiver. For the first time that night, his mind was telling him he'd rather not know where Lupin went every month. 

Severus's finger was now tracing an O. O for Octopus or Oatbran or Odin, his middle name.

Severus took a tentative step down into the tunnel, his nose instantly filled with the combined odor of wet dog and dry blood. There was no light at the end of the tunnel, instead a huge, slavering beast. A werewolf. Lupin was a werewolf. 

And he was going to die. 

Severus remained frozen in shocked realization as the dog rushed towards him, its lips drawn back in blood-curling madness. He would have remained stationary as it tore him to shreds, if it wasn't for the strong pair of hands that pulled him up, out of the tunnel, out of the hellhole, into the night. 

A final S for Snape. He stared at the three letters inscribed under Black's initials. S.O.S. Severus Odin Snape. S.O.S. A cry for help.

It was James Potter. 

"Thank you," Severus has managed to gasp. 

Potter's reply would echo in his ears for the rest of his life, "Bastard." 

His resolution cracked, his shoulders falling as his head fell against his chest, racked with sobs. "God help me," he choked out before the words were swallowed by Azkaban's silence. 

So, you want to see where Lupin goes every month, eh?

What's it to you, Black?

----

__

He looked down upon the earth, marveling at the world he inhabited, a world of freedom, without cares, worries, a world truly his own. Winging high above the clouds, he felt power flow with every ounce of blood rushing through veins, his heart beating in an unchained melody of fierce feral triumph. He lived at incapable speeds. Riding an upcurrent of air, he gave his powerful wings another flap, the tiny movement sending him spiraling up and up through the sugar spun clouds and above and then through again, cutting the wisps of condensed moisture like cheesecloth. He was not bound, like a earth crawler men beneath him, by a weak pitiful frame. His existence was far superior, haphazard and carefree, a limbo of air and clouds, where the only regulation was the velocity of joy. Looking down at the weak toothpick figures on the earth below him, a sudden thought struck him, a whim that if he had lips, would have caused him to smile. 

Like a shot, he began to speed towards the earth, the air whooshing past him like temporary substance, unimportant and insignificant. The wind blew this way and that, but his power was to great to be swayed by the fickle will of nature. Inside of him, the real miracle was happening. It was a rush of incredible adrenaline unlike anything he had ever experienced. His massive heart pounded a mambo of exhilaration, his scaly wings flush and tight against his sides. Any residual human fear was illuminated, as faster and faster, the earth rolled up before him. He watched the toothpick figures turn into twigs, and then panicked men, running this way and that, the cry of "Dragon! Dragon!" on every lip. 

They should know better. They should know that they are simply insects to him. Little ants he could squish between his toes without a second thought. Men were garbage. Trash. It was his job to clean the earth. Every so gently, the dragon bent his head down to the ground, until his scaly chin scraped the dirt, then without warning he let out a tiny puff...

A hot tongue of flame rushed across the surface of the earth catching several of the screaming men in its path. Their cries only increased as they fell to the ground, blackened and burning as the fire ate away at their living bodies. Once again, the dragon would have smiled. He let loose one last good-bye-kiss of flame before taking wing, spiraling up to the clouds and beyond, into infinity. 

Romulus awoke with a start, the embers of Posthumous's campfire casting his world into sharp relief. Looking away into the dark night, he pressed his hands against his head, trying futilly to stop out the relentless pounding within. But unlike the dragon, Romulus was a man, a weak ant, and would not heal himself by will alone. So instead he stared up into the night sky, mesmerized by the promise of the dreams that haunted him every night: dreams that carried within them the memories of his only angel, dragon's blood. 

----

Gabriel ran along on the hard pavement, his anger flooding through him like a tidal wave. Anger at Moody, at the Minister, but mainly at himself. He had been simply naive to expect anything but antagonization from Lucius Malfoy. He was naive to look for help anywhere. He should have realized it before: he was utterly and completely alone. To the Aurors he was the serial killer's son, and to Malfoy he was Dumbledore's pawn. Polarized by both camps he found himself somewhere in limbo, somewhere in the middle, where there was nowhere to turn, nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Gabriel was that so-famed Third Camp, somewhere inside the shades of gray between the Death Eaters and Aurors. He laughed at the irony, but it wasn't a laugh with any humor. It was bitter. Tired. Alone. 

He turned the corner to walk to his flat and stopped dead in his tracks. There was no apartment building left to walk into. What had once been his home was reduced to a wasteland of smoking debris. Muggle emergency vehicles flocked to the scene like flies, their engines buzzing nosily as faceless men in white uniforms picked up the dead, wounded and everyone in-between, some still smoldering as the smoke rose from the lifeless rubble. Running forward, he found himself sinking to his knees into what had once been the lobby. Nobody cared, nobody tried to stop him, they were to busy coping and healing and dying to even notice his presence. Slowly, hardly daring to believe, Gabriel extended his burnt hand and ran his fingers through the black ash which had once been walls, furniture, people. Lifting his fingers, he saw that his hand was completely black with ash and burn, though trying to wipe it off onto his other hand only caused the blackness to spread further so he gave up and staggered to his feet, the smoke cloying at his sense while the screams of the dying rent his heart. 

Then he saw it. No more than two feet away, untouched by the blaze, was a walking stick, as gnarled and twisted as the auror who had once owned it. The wizard who had set this fire. Gabriel bent down and picked up the cane, unable to stop the bitter smile rising to his features. Moody.

----

Midnight dawned heavy upon a tiny campsite in the eastern Sahara. Hermione and Ron lay close together by the fire, their sleep troubled and shallow in an unfamiliar land. Stress had only served as a sedative to Sirius, who slept with his fingers wrapped around the hilt of a penknife. As for Remus, sleep seemed only a far-away memory as he lay on his back, eyes to the stars, his thoughts lost in the belly of the night. 

"Can't sleep?" Remus glanced away from the deep beauty of the stars to give Vix a slight smile. 

"No," he said quietly, as not to wake the others. "I'm stargazing." 

She laughed slightly at the announcement before pointing up to a star on her own. "There's Sirius." 

"Ours is over there," Remus glanced across the flames to where Padfoot slept. "Fast asleep." 

"What?" Vix smiled again. "Are you jealous?" 

"Somewhat," Remus acknowledged with a tiny shrug. "The moon is bright tonight," he said quietly after a slight pause. 

"My mother used to tell me a story about the moon," Vix began, her long hair flowing behind her like liquid onyx. "I think its some kind of Chinese folktale, but..." She broke off, taking Remus's silence for a go-ahead. "In the beginning of the world there were four beings: the Earth, his daughter the Moon, the Sun and his brother the Night. Sun and Moon fell in love, but her father, Earth, had already promised Night her hand in marriage. Sun raged and Moon wept, but there was nothing they could do against the Earth. So Moon was sent to Night's palace, never to see Sun until the day of judgment. The stars are the tears she weeps for her lost love." 

"That's Orien's jacket, isn't it?" Remus said quietly, nodding towards the leather coat she wore like a second skin. 

Vix shrugged noncommittally, her face instantly growing dark. "He didn't need it anymore."

Remus knew instantly that he was treading on thin ice, so he decided to try and change the subject. "What's Murderer's Way?'

Vix glanced down at her T-shirt, a faint smile spreading across her porcelain features. "My restaurant. I was arrested for Seiji's murder in the airport after you left. But the prosecution's star witness, Whimsy, was unavailable for comment so the police had to let me go. Seiji left his ten billion to me, god knows why, and I rebuilt the diner and named it Murderer's Way." She gave a conspiratorial grin. "We serve nothing but steaks, it's right up your alley." But Vix saw the look on his face and in an instant she knew she had gone to far. 

"Do you think it would have been better if I had never come to Hong Kong?" he said quietly. "So many people would still be alive: Orien, Seiji--" 

"Remus," she began. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"Nsia," he continued. "Whimsy."

"I don't think like that, Remus," she said quickly. "Maybe it would be better, maybe it wouldn't, but there's nothing we can do about it. Besides," Vix gave him a wan smile. "If you never came to Hong Kong, I wouldn't have known you." 

"Is that worth too much?" he asked bitterly. 

"It's worth more than you think," she replied, meeting his downcast gaze. 

"Vix, about the cage..." he began hesitantly. 

Almost instantly her head snapped up. "Don't go there, Remus, please..." 

"I would have killed you," he said, trying to ignore the look of pain on her face, the tell-tale trace of silver around her neck...

Vix didn't say anything, instead she reached up her fingers slowly traveling down the curve of his throat. "You have a scar." 

"I have about twenty scars," he replied quietly. 

"All from the necklace?" 

"Yes." 

Vix opened her mouth as if to say something, closed it and then looked downwards. "I should be the one apologizing. You saved my life, in your own little roundabout way. If it wasn't for the necklace..." she trailed off, instead gripping his hand with her own, their fingers intertwining, the action saying what words couldn't begin to express. 

They sat like that for a while, hand in hand, each head resting against the other. Vix didn't say anything as his fingers began to move, tracing a nonsense pattern across her own palm, flitting up her arm like butterfly kisses, finding her shoulder, the curve of her neck, resting the in hollow of her throat, tracing the line of her chin. "Vix..." he began, his voice unsure. 

"Shhh," she raised her finger to his mouth. "I should go to sleep." 

But she didn't, moving her hand to the nape of his neck, curling her fingers in his tresses. They were so close she could hear his heart within his breast, beating a double-time as she silently met his gaze. Neither of them said a word as he bore down upon her and she melted into him. 


	8. In the Name of the Father

PHOENIX ASCENDING VIII-- In the Name of the Father

He sat in the rubble: uncaring, unheeding as the world ended around him. Sirens blew, homes burned, and children died as he sat lost in his own personal maze of apathy. 

A gentle cooing noise brought him back to reality. It was an owl. Gabriel dropped Moody's cane to absently stroke the bird's head, noting how his fingers made black lines of soot across its delicate tawny feathers. The owl gave an appreciative chortle and held out his leg for Gabriel to untie the letter bound there. Once the folded parchment came away in his hand, the owl was gone, a tiny speck of white fluttering deeper and deeper into the abyss of city night. 

Gabriel unfolded the note, half-expecting some inane death threat from Moody, half-hoping for a consultation from Malfoy. But it was none of these things. He traced his finger along the loopy script he knew so well, staining the parchment with soot. When Gabriel was through with reading, he tossed the letter onto the ground beside Moody's cane and stood up. Without so much as a farewell to his wasteland of a home, he disapperated, leaving the letter to proclaim its words to a night too full of blood, and screams, and dying:

The tests are done. Come to the lab before Malfoy sees the results. Always the best, Hilly. 

----

Harry awoke cramped, his body moving up and down as if he was at sea, bobbing forever on a life raft, never to set foot on dry shore again. But as he opened his eyes and memory flooded back, he realized that he was farther away from a sea than he had ever been in his life. 

"Good," a voice remarked from somewhere above him. "You're awake." 

Harry slowly managed to slowly sit up. He was in some kind of wooden wagon, skins, boxes and silks of all colors piled around him like dross. The ceiling was made up of the same translucent white fabric the horsemen had worn over their faces the day before. "Who are you?" he said quietly, staring up at the man who had spoken to him. 

The rider gave a laugh and bent down to his knees so he was at Harry's eye level. From his friendly manner, Harry knew it wasn't the swordsman who had stolen him away from his friends the day before. "My name is Innoch," he said lightly. "Sixth horseman of the tribe of Anan. And you are?" 

"Harry Potter," Harry said weakly, not quite sure what at all to expect. 

"Are you a legionnaire? Turk? You're not a Egyptian." The horseman asked this all rather quickly, and despite the fact that Innoch and his companions had violently kidnapped him the day before, Harry couldn't help but like him. 

"No," Harry said. "I'm a Brit." 

"Filthy savage," Innoch remarked in a not at all unfriendly way. "The Romans are terrified of your people. Is it true that you spike your hair, paint yourselves blue and run around like mad-men?" 

"Er..." Harry found himself rather taken aback. "Not that I'm aware of..." 

Innoch did not get a chance to reply because at that moment two men climbed abruptly into the wagon, one of whom Harry instantly recognized as the horseman who had taken him the day before. The other looked scared out of his wits, wringing the sides of his robe in what could only be incredible fear. 

"Sir, its like I told you..." the second man began nervously, crumpling his robe up in his hand. 

"What you told me is impossible!" The lead rider spun around, his whole frame radiating anger. "Mysterious men who vanish when we chase after them! Bandits who burn our villages by shooting fire out of sticks of wood, and then summon snake demons to hover above your houses! Men who take nothing but our infants, who show no interest in our silver or our livestock! This I cannot accept, Harran! Why do you tell me such tales? Why?" 

"It's the truth!" the nervous man ventured, his voice cracking horribly on the last word.

"I've heard stories, Anan," Innoch said quietly, addressing the rider. "Stories that back up Harran's words." 

"See?" Harran, the nervous man, gestured towards Innoch. "Your son-in-law believes me!" 

"Silence!" The horseman rounded on Harran, who shrunk back into a whimpering ball under his gaze. Slowly, the rider turned to Innoch. When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous. "And what are these tales you've heard?" 

Unlike Harran, Innoch didn't back down under the rider's gaze. "Like I told you last night. These bandits steal our children, and then sacrifice them to their horrible snake-god. It is said they are building a fortress in the deep desert, a stronghold of dark magic, where only evil can enter--" 

"Silence!" The rider cut him off and began to pace up and down the wagon, his hand clenching and unclenching around the pommel of his sword. "That's thirty villages they've attacked and burned in the last month, and whenever we try to go after them they simply vanish like specters. All they take is our children and yet, they do not sell them as slaves. However, I cannot accept is that they are evil demons sent to haunt us by displeased gods! It's madness!" 

"Their leader, sir," Harran tentatively ventured from his tiny ball of submissive silence. "The one with the silver hand. I tried to stop him-- I tried to fight sword to sword as men do. But he only laughed and gripped my blade in his silver grip, crumbling it between his fingers." Harran helplessly held up his own hands to illustrate his point. "How can we stand against that? How can we ever stand against that?" he trailed off in despair, his voice close to a sob. 

"You can't." 

The three horsemen turned around to stare in absolute amazement at the captive they had forgotten was even present. 

"Excuse me?" The leader stared at Harry who gave an instinctive shiver under the rider's gaze. 

"You can't stand against them," he said, feeling every single eye on his face. "I know that man." 

"He's lying," Harran said quickly, spitting in disgust. "This is one of your slaves, Anan? The boy is trying to weasel his way out of captivity." 

"Shhh," the leader, Anan, bent down next to Innoch until he was eye to eye with Harry. "I will give you five minutes to say everything you have to say. If you lie, I will know and you will die. Do I make myself understood?" 

Harry nodded dumbly, trying to ignore the lump that had somehow fitted itself inside of his throat. "The man's name is Peter Pettigrew, he supports an evil wizard named Lord Voldemort who is trying to take over the world--" But Anan was already getting up, slowly shaking his head. Harry realized how ridiculous he must sound. "Here," he shouted to Harran. "I can prove it to you. Is this what your snake demon looked like?" 

Harry bent down and began to draw the dark mark into the thin layer of sand that coated the floor of the wagon; a skull and snake locked in deadly intercourse that was forever branded into his brain. When he saw Harran backing away in horror, Harry knew his suspicions had been correct. "Impossible," the horseman said, as all color drained form his face. "Its a coincidence, he saw the village, he--" 

However, Harry had ceased to listen, throwing his hands into the many pockets of his robes simultaneously, groping for a familiar stick of holly and phoenix feather. It was gone. "My wand," he said quickly, before rounding on Anan. "You took it, where's my wand?" 

"Don't give it to him!" Harran was shrieking. "He's one of them! He will kill us all! I saw him! I saw him!"

"I won't hurt you," Harry said quietly, concentrating only on Anan. "You have my word. I only want to prove to you that I'm not lying." 

"He's just a kid, Anan," Innoch said from behind Harry, turning from the hysterical Harran with a slight smirk on his face. 

"I give you my word," Harry repeated, once more daring to look up into Anan's blazing eyes. Again, that first wave of instinctive fear traced its way up his spine, but then he felt something entirely from Anan's gaze: not a test, not a threat, but simply a muted understanding. Inside those piercing brown eyes, Harry saw something of himself. Silently, Anan reached into his white, billowy robes and pulled out his wand. Harry leapt up and took it in his hand, the familiar dents and scratches never so welcome beneath his fingers.

"Prove it," Anan's voice was hard, his gravely tone unforgiving. 

"_Flammae pila_," Harry whispered, feeling a gentle tingling stretch across his fingers as a ball of red-hot flames roared to life in his hand. He almost smiled at Harran's audible gasp. "_Finite Incantium_," he said and the flames instantly winked out. "I could burn down a village if I wanted to," Harry said quietly, feeling his audience hang on every word. "I could make myself disappear. I could kill you. _Accio_ sword!" Quick as lightening, Harry turned to face Harran who crumpled with fear as his ruined blade shot across the room to be caught deftly in the hand of Gryffindor's seeker. Harry held up the sword so it hit the faint sunlight filtering in through the cheesecloth ceiling. It was broken off at the hilt; the few inches of blade remaining as twisted and contorted as Pettigrew's own soul. "The man who did this," he said quietly, "is no myth."

At that instant, the wagon ground to a halt. 

----

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" 

Remus awoke, an unfamiliar weight on his chest. Blearily opening his eyes he realized it was Vix, her dark head nestled in the crevice of his breastbone; her long hair lying spread across his shoulders smelling slightly of roses, motor oil... coffee. It would have been a perfect scene if it wasn't for the fact that Sirius was sitting a few inches away, an incredibly smug expression on his face. 

Panic instantly striking him, Remus sat bolt upright, causing Vix's head to drop into his lap. She gave a little grunt and rolled over, sticking her nose into his belly button. All in all, it wasn't that bad of a feeling. "This isn't what it looks like," he began, but at Sirius's loud snort decided to reconsider. "All right, it's exactly what it looks like, but--" 

"Do you know how long," Sirius began, a crazy-maniac grin plastered to his face, "I've wanted to find you like this?" 

"Sirius..." Remus's tone was about as close to sounding dangerous as he ever got. 

"After all those times you dragged me, practically drunk--" 

"Drunk," Remus interjected. 

"All right," Sirius acknowledged with a knowing shrug. "After all those times you dragged me drunk out of the girls dormitory, I had my heart set on finding you like this. And you know what? I've been waiting twenty years." 

"Sirius," Remus began, feeling himself grow pink.

"I thought I had a pretty good chance with you and Viola Lorenzo, back at Hogwarts." 

"Sirius..." 

"Then there was Portia," Sirius smirked. "And the Russian. What was her name?"

"Sirius, if you know what's good for you," Remus growled, eyeing his friend threateningly. 

"Oh no," Sirius threw up his hands in mock defeat. "I can't possibly fight the superhuman-werewolf strength." 

"Damn you," Remus said between clenched teeth. 

"I'm not the one with the female harem," Sirius gave Remus his best pious look. "Thou shall not commit adultery--"

A loud snort from Remus's lap silenced them both. Vix was sitting up, an expression of intense amusement on her face. "I've been listening to the whole thing." Shaking her head, she turned to Remus, the smile instantly dropping off her face. "Who's Portia?"

Sirius's laughter rang out across the dunes as Remus turned a rather brilliant shade of red.

----

Romulus awoke with a foot in his face. "Get up," It was Posthumous, his wild-hair and five-o-clock shadow looking especially menacing in the early-morning haze. 

"Why should I?" he growled, turning over and burying his face in the sand. His head ached like something powerful, a fire searing away everything between his ears. 

"Because I've been kicking your face for the last hour," Posthumous replied, nudging Romulus again. 

"Damn you," he said, the words somewhat muffled by the sand. 

Posthumous managed to catch the curse anyway, but to Romulus's surprise, he only laughed. "Get up, unless you want to spend the rest of your life wandering around this desert." 

Romulus managed to sit up on his elbows, the first rays of sun too bright for his eyes. He blinked rapidly, trying to stop them from tearing up. "How long would I last?" 

"In the desert?" Posthumous stood up, considering. "A day, maybe two, it depends if you'd bleed yourself." 

"What?" Romulus staggered to his feet, wiping the sleep from his eyes, interested in spite of himself. 

"In the deep desert there's no water." Posthumous replied. "So you can drink your own blood to avoid dying of dehydration." He gave Romulus an appraising sort of look. "You don't strike me as one who would shirk at the sight of blood." 

Romulus smiled bitterly at the irony. "No. I wouldn't say that." 

"You're a survivor," Posthumous said quietly, a faraway look on his face. 

"Like you," Romulus said, feeling an almost visceral understanding towards this terribly thin man with the ready smile and scruffy manner. 

"Yes," Posthumous replied, meeting Romulus's gaze for the first time. "Like me." 

Unlike the rest of him, Posthumous eyes were not burned brown by sunlight and exposure. They were the most brilliant green Romulus had ever seen: a green of foliage, trees and forest, a green possible only where water ran rampant. A green not borne of the desert. "You're not from around here, either," he said quietly. 

"No," Posthumous was looking at Romulus as if this was the first time he had really seen him. A faint smile crept across his weather-beaten lips as he shook his head slowly. "No, I'm not." 

At that moment, Viktor Krum jogged over the nearby dune, Posthumous's skeletal mule in tow. "She hadn't run far," he said, panting as he nudged the mule towards Posthumous. 

"Livia always chooses to run away at the most convenient times, eh?" Posthumous said brightly, addressing the mule more than Krum or Romulus. "She knows we're going to put her to work." 

"Livia?" Romulus raised an eyebrow, recognizing the name. He hadn't been a history major at the University for nothing. 

"Livia is my mule," Posthumous evaded the unasked question, an idyllic smile painted across his face. "She's named after a real ass." Krum's knowledge of English wasn't sufficient to get the joke and Romulus did not find it remotely funny, so Posthumous continued without getting his obligatory snickers. "Well, now that we have Livia, we may as well go." 

"Go where?" Romulus said drolly, his marginal respect for Posthumous dropping as the temperature climbed. 

Posthumous leaned back against Livia to consider. "Eventually, if you give us all enough time we're all going to Hades."

"Literally," Romulus spat flatly. 

"West," Posthumous said, and it was only when he had leapt astride Livia and set out across the dunes when Romulus realized his question hadn't been answered at all.

----

The five of them were seated around the remains of last night's campfire, Sirius drawing nonsense figures in the sand with Harry's penknife as Hermione grilled Remus on how to best transfigure grains of sand into drops of water. Vix was telling a rather enthralled Ron about drenching Maxmilian Consuedo-Ponce in coffee back in Hong Kong. Apparently, Consuedo-Ponce was one of Mr. Wealsey's creditors, and Ron was taking an immense satisfaction out of his humiliation. 

"So," Sirius finally remarked, the previous night's intensity creeping back into his tone. "Shall we start then?" No one said a word, which he took as an affirmation. Lowering his wand to the sand, he muttered in a low whisper, "_Ubi es Harry Potter_?" 

"Locatés charm," Remus shot to Hermione and Vix, who were both staring at Sirius with a confused sort of amazement. "It lights a path towards the person mentioned in the incantation, though a Locatés can be easily blocked with counter-spells." 

Evidently, Harry had no such wards, for a thin trail of red light shot out of the tip of Sirius's wand, bouncing its way across the desert, heading due west.

----

Gabriel apperated just outside of Hilly's lab, a faint whistle of air heralding his presence as she looked up from a bubbling beaker full of brilliant purple liquid. "Gabriel," she said, her face holding not her usual smile, but something else. Not fear, nor hate, but simply: pity.

"You have the results," he said quietly, suddenly knowing in his gut that he didn't really want to know what Hilly had discovered with her bubbling beakers and laboratory scans. 

"Yeah," she said quietly, pulling off her goggles as she waved him forward. "Come in. I think Malfoy set up security cameras, but frankly, I'm past the point of caring." 

Gabriel took a step backwards, "If I'm going to get you into trouble--" he began. 

"No, don't worry about it," she said, motioning him to come in. "I'm in enough shit already that this won't matter." 

Gabriel tentatively entered the lab, the noise his shoes made when they slapped against the floor echoing in the emptiness of his heart, reverberating around the hole burnt there by Alastor Moody. Hilly waved him over to a counter full of files, where he slowly took a seat feeling rather like he was about to be tried by the Spanish Inquisition. "So you did the tests?" 

"Yeah," Hilly repeated, sitting herself down beside him. "I have the results-- what on earth happened to your hand?" 

Gabriel glanced down at his palm, scorched by Moody's spell and coated with a thin layer of ash. It hurt so much that he had simply ceased to notice it, but Hilly's exclamation brought with it a fresh wave of pain, and with the pain, a new surge of anger. Anger he quickly suppressed. Since when had anyone cared about what happened to him? "Nothing happened," Gabriel said stonily, meeting Hilly's concerned blue gaze with a steely one of his own. 

"That's burn isn't nothing, Gabriel," she said, her voice full of concern. Ever so gently, she took a hold of his palm. "Who did this to you?" 

"Nothing happened, Hilly," he sneered between clenched teeth as he pulled his palm out of her grasp, clenching it into a fist so that the wound was hidden. 

"Was it Moody?" she persisted, staring at him inquisitively. 

"No," he said, his voice like steel. But inside, Gabriel was crying. He wanted nothing more than to fall into her grasp, rest her head upon her shoulder and weep. Weep until his tears had run dry. Weep until she comforted him, bandaged his hand, wiping it clean of the pain and soot and evil as his mother would. A mother he never had.

"All right," Hilly turned away, her door closed. "Nothing happened." At her refusal, something inside Gabriel broke. He was unable to stop the sob rising up from deep inside his chest, powerless to keep his shoulders from trembling, helpless as the single tear made its way through the thick coating of soot on his cheek. "Maybe this isn't a good time," Hilly began nervously, unwilling to comfort her one-time friend.

"It's all right," Gabriel choked out as he raised his wounded hand up to his eye, trying to wipe away the tears that wouldn't stop coming, slipping down his palm and mingling with the burn there. It was useless. His resolve, his bulwark, and strength had just been broken, torn down to the ground by a dirty old one-legged man on his twenty-five year quest for revenge. 

"You can stay the night at my place," Hilly ventured, laying a hand on his trembling shoulder. "I'll just show you the results in the morning." 

"No!" Lost to any reason, Gabriel twisted out from her comforting touch, the thing he wanted most at this desperate moment. "Tell me now. Am I guilty?" 

Hilly stared at him for a second, the soot staining his face, the tears still running down his cheeks, his spiked hair haphazard and mussed. Gabriel looked a wreck, and she knew his emotional scars were ten times deeper than any surface wound. Yet, there was nothing she could do except tell him the truth. "No," Hilly said quietly. "But neither is Snape." 

"Then who did it?" Gabriel said, his voice finally under control as his shoulders stopped their uncontrollable trembling. Hilly tried not to notice how his hands had left sooty palm-marks on her immaculate white countertop. 

"The killer's blood matched up with a fifty year old tissue sample we had taken from Tom Riddle when he had his appendix removed in his seventh year at Hogwarts," Hilly said, shrugging her shoulders in defeat. 

"Well that's it!" Gabriel gave her the first real smile she had seen all night. "Malfoy has to finally admit that Voldemort is back--" 

"No, Gabriel!" Hilly lashed out, her fragile resolve breaking, amazed at his naïveté. "No he won't! The results of this test mean nothing, since they are not what Malfoy wanted them to be! Do you ever think he would honestly implicate Voldemort? Do you know what will happen now?" 

"No, Hilly I don't," he said quietly, meeting her quavering gaze. 

"I know the truth, Gabriel," she said quietly, her voice breaking. "He's not going to let me live." 

"Hilly, I--" he began. 

"You know its true," she cut him off, shaking her head slowly. "And the scariest thing is I don't care." 

"Don't say that, Hilly." 

"Why lie?" Hilly wanted to cry, breakdown, sob, but all she could feel was a sort of numb apathy. She was going to die, and she couldn't bring herself to give a damn. Her emotions were glazed over like a clay pot, baked in the heat of a sun she would never see again. Pushing the specter of ever-encroaching death from her mind, Hilly turned again to Gabriel. "There's one more thing," she said quietly, breaking the silence as she reaching out and gripped his wrist. "Because of the nature of the case, Minister Malfoy had instructed that a measure of your father's tissue be included in the test. I was analyzing it, and I realized that he had AB blood." 

"Yes?" Gabriel replied, suddenly growing quiet and looking down at the ground like he always did when his father was mentioned.

__

our father

"You have O blood." 

__

who art in heaven,

"So?" The words meant absolutely nothing to Gabriel, whose knowledge of Muggle science was about as limited as Voldemort's potential as a kindergarten teacher. 

__

hallowed be thy name,

He would remember Hilly's next words for the rest of his life, "It's genetically impossible for someone with AB blood to have a child with blood type O." 

__

thy kingdom come,

Gabriel felt as if something very hard and mind-bogglingly fast had just hit him between the temples. Despite his pain, his agony, his utter exhaustion, he felt as if a flame has been lit inside of him, a flame burning away everything evil and corroded. The flame of hope. "Are you saying that Sejanus Cox isn't my father?" He didn't even have to wait for her reply before the smile broke onto his lips. Gabriel beamed; feeling that maybe, just maybe, the world might not end after all. 

__

thy will be done,

"I'm saying its genetically impossible," Hilly replied quietly, the heaviness of her tone invisible to Gabriel's sudden joy. 

__

on earth as it is in heaven,

He stared at her, his eyes longing, a sense of such desperation on his face she knew he was being ripping apart on the inside. "What exactly are you saying?" Gabriel's voice was taunt, every word so enunciated that the raw emotion in his tone was palpable. 

__

give us this day

"Since you're my friend," Hilly began, her eyes focused on the floor, "and I thought you might want to know who your father was, I ran a sample of your DNA against our database of the entire wizarding community." She took a deep breath before continuing, her heart in the bottom of her throat. "There's a match." 

__

our daily bread,

"Well, who?" Gabriel found it impossible to keep the excitement out of his tone, the smile from of his face. 

__

and forgive us our trespasses,

Wordlessly, Hilly nudged a file towards him. Eagerly, Gabriel took it in his hands, his eyes instantly traveling to the name emblazoned onto the front. A shiver ran across him, small at first and then unbearable as it whipped through the holes in his psyche, dowsing his tiny flame of hope against the walls of his heart, charring them, burning them down like the floors of his apartment building, until all that remained was a pile of smoking debris, an empty shell, ice clinging to his arteries like angel tears. But Gabriel's guardian angels had forever fled. 

__

as we forgive those who trespass against us,

Hilly said nothing as the file slipped through Gabriel's limp fingers. Neither of them spoke as the papers it had contained flew across the lab and single tissue sample from the folder fell to the floor and shattered open. The tiny piece of organ within rolled out and bounced off of the side of Hilly's cabinet. Wordlessly, Gabriel reached his foot down and stomped upon the pitiful little organ, smashing it against the cold tile floor until his hate welled up inside him like a flood waiting to burst and he had to jump off of the stool. 

__

and lead us not into temptation,

Still, the tears wouldn't come. "Cry dammit, cry!" he yelled as Hilly sat behind him in silence, dead to life already. Striding across the room, Gabriel snatched up the fallen file folder that had started it all. It was now empty, weightless, but his father's name remained printed onto the front, mocking his dry eyes. "You won't let me cry," he whispered to the name as he reached for it, smearing the printed letters with soot, trying in vain to black them out. Still the words _Tom Marvolo Riddle_ grinned up at him. 

__

but deliver us from evil.

You can't black out the devil. 

----

__

thanks to all who reviewed the last one: Kat, Moon, Vanguard, Viktor'sGurl (there will be more Viktor soon! I promise!), aragog, Jen (thought your review was interesting too), NS, Katie Bell, CLS, and of course my beautiful beta- Rowena. what do you think? any comments on the original characters? too dark? fluffy? cliché? let me know please! drop me a line or do review, if you think it sucks or shines (::grin, grin:: alliteration :O) ) please let me know. anyhow, thank you all and love you to pieces :O)


	9. Gods and Monsters

****

PHOENIX ASCENDING IX-- GODS AND MONSTERS

Viktor Krum looked surprisingly mortal for a god.

Romulus surveyed the Bulgarian seeker almost lazily as they followed Livia's massive backside on its haphazard way across the dunes. Sick of not knowing where Posthumous was taking him, Romulus had turned his intrests to other fronts. It was the first time since they had landed themselves in the godforsaken Roman province that he could remember taking a mild interest in Krum, who seemed oblivious to the new attention. Tilting his head slightly, Romulus felt himself smile. Though he was a superstar across seven continents, Krum wasn't really remarkably striking. Passable might even be pushing the envelope. Curly black hair fell into his face, its Eastern Block pale already red from the hot Sahara sun. His thick black brows crowned Viktor's brooding eyes, which were deep-set in a face that seemed to naturally scowl. All in all Romulus saw Krum as modern-day version of Ivan the Terrible. 

"Yes?" 

Romulus blinked, looking around for the sound of the voice, feeling a slight shock when he saw that it was Krum himself, squinting in the bright sunlight. He was still scowling. "What?" Romulus spat back, turning his face away quickly, forcing a break with Krum's eye contact. 

"You vere looking at me," Krum said matter-of-factly, his absurd accent making the accusation seem almost ludicrous. 

"No, I wasn't," Romulus lied, eyes fixed on Livia's hindquarters. 

"Yes, you vere." 

"No, I wasn't!" Romulus lashed out violently, giving Krum an angry stare. 

"Alright you vere not," Krum said in a tone that made it quite clear he was just humoring Romulus. A silence held for a few moments before Krum, who didn't seem to be catching Romulus's anti-social signals, decided to take another stab at conversation. "Do you think ve'll ever find them?" 

"Find who?" Romulus snapped, glaring at Krum. 

Krum looked rather confused. "Her-my-oh-knee and her friends" at the blank look on Romulus's face he decided to elaborate. "Ron Veasley? Harry Potter?" 

Romulus felt his face clench up in frustration, "What does bloody Harry Potter have to do with anything?" 

"Isn't that vhy you are here?" Krum asked, his face almost as confused as Romulus's own. 

"Obviously not, since I have no idea what he has to do with anything," the older man snapped, kicking the sand angrily. 

"Harry and his friends found the Greyvillian Responder before ve did," Krum said matter-of-factly. "We came back here to rescue them." 

"You came back here to rescue them," Romulus said scathingly, looking at Krum with growing dislike. 

Krum's naivete was sickening. "Then vhy are you here?" 

Romulus nearly exploded. "Because you're a goddamn idiot, that's why! I'm a squib, Krum, do you know what that is?" Krum nodded dumbly, taken aback by the other man's outburst. "I don't know anything about magic and I don't trust it. It's never gotten me anywhere good. I had just seen that goddamn tube eat my bloody brother when he touched it and there you were lunging for the damn thing! I tried to stop you, but I got sucked along for the ride." Romulus walked up right next to Krum and grabbed him by the robes. "I don't give a damn about your fucking friends, I just want to get the hell out of here." 

This did not have the intimidating effect that Romulus hoped. He nearly spat in frustration when he saw the grin creeping across Krum's face. "You don't not care." The Bulgarian seeker smiled. 

"What the hell are you talking about?" Romulus growled, confused by the double negative. He dropped Krum angrily, feeling slightly gratified when the seeker hit the ground with a sickening crunch. 

Krum got up calmly from the sand and began dusting himself off. "If you don't care then why did you try and stop the tube from eating me?" 

"I don't care," Romulus repeated through clenched teeth. 

Krum's smile was more than a touch sarcastic, "Of course you don't." 

----

With a sudden lurch, the wagon ground to a halt. Harry gripped the side of the cart in shock, but the three desert tribesmen seemed relatively unfazed. Anan leapt out of the wagon without so much as a backwards glance, Harran a few paces behind him. Innoch gave Harry a friendly smile and motioned him to follow before he too disappeared over the edge. Leaving Harran's ruined blade on the wagon's floor, Harry followed. 

The intense African sun momentarily blinded him. Blinking furiously, Harry had to shut his eyes before he could get a good look at his surroundings. No longer was he in the never-ending desert. Anan's caravan had come to rest in the shadow of some unknown mountain range, and though sand was still underfoot, various scruffy shrubs were dotted about, clinging to life with only raw stringy determination. 

Harry smelt it first. 

It reminded him vaguely of that night in the graveyard, tied to a tombstone, fumes from a bubbling cauldron laying waste to his senses. 

A second memory popped unbidden to the forefront of Harry's mind: a battlefield where knights and beast lay dying among their trampled standards. Their swords were stained with blood and the scent of charred flesh was buoyed by the wind as carrion birds circled high above. 

Shuddering, Harry pushed the memory from his mind. Still the funny charred stench lingered in his nostrils. Slowly, somehow knowing and yet dreading what he would find behind him, Harry turned around. 

It was hell. 

Blackened huts lay in ruin, still smoldering from a previous blaze. Vultures wandered aimlessly amidst the rubble, cawing excitedly when they stumbled across a corpse that wasn't to badly burned to eat. The bodies of several horses lay in a pile, gutted and skinned, their rich stench almost as appalling as their rotting bodies. Harry took a few steps into the rubble and paled. A child's fragile hand from the nearest building, flames still licking at its fingers, 

"I'm sorry you had to see this," Harry looked up to see Innoch standing beside him. 

"Who would do something like this?" Harry stammered, already knowing the answer to his own question as he looked upwards to where the Dark Mark still hovered, its scull and all to visible in the noon-day sun. 

"Your Pettigrew," Innoch answered quietly, eyes focused on Harran, who had fallen to the sand, beating it with his fists and wailing uncontrollably. "Harran left his village to report the theft of five children," he started. "He returned to find it burned to the ground and his family not yet cold." 

"But, why?" Harry knew how naive he sounded, but he couldn't keep his confusion bottled in any longer. "If the children is all they want, why did they burn the village?" 

"Who knows what they really want," Innoch said bitterly. "Who knows why men seed destruction and hatred on the earth. Until we do, I'm afraid there will be many more villages like this one."

"It's wrong," Harry said forcefully. 

"It's war," Innoch replied. 

Unknowingly, Anan cut them off. Drawing his great broadsword he lifted it high above his head, letting it catch the noontime sun. Harry nearly jumped straight out of his skin when Innoch followed suit, joined by the five other caravan riders, dotted at various places across the ruined village_. "Nossas almas não descansarão até que o sangue deste murderer flua sobre_" Anan cried, his gravely voice ringing out across the shallow valley. "_Para fora da terra como um rio!"_ Then all seven horsemen gave a simultaneous shout before thrusting their swords hilt-deep into the sound. 

For a moment, a supreme silence reigned, broken only by the uncontrollable sobs of Harran. 

"It's a binding oath of revenge," Innoch said quietly, answering Harry's unspoken question as he pulled his sword from the sand. "Translated into Latin, Our souls will not rest until the blood of this murderer flows across our land like a river--" 

"Wait," Harry lifted up his hand, scarcely believing Innoch's words. "What do you mean, translated into Latin?" 

A bemused smile crossed Innoch's brown features. "What do you think we're speaking? Greek?" 

Harry didn't get a chance to reply, for a small sound of applause caught his attention. Wheeling around, Harry saw three figures leading a scraggly looking donkey down the nearest hillside. Their leader was a man so incredibly thin; he looked as if he could be sucked through a straw. He was clapping, no small feat with a donkey tether under his arm. "Jolly good show, Anan! That's the best native ritual I've seen yet!" he called out, his voice echoing against the foothills. 

Anan seemed to know the newcomer, as did the rest of the horsemen, including Innoch. They all turned to gather in a tight knot around their leader, watching the three men progress down the hillside with thinly veiled excitement. Harry, hopelessly confused, could only follow suit. 

"This is the smallest payment I've seen yet, Posthumous," Anan called out in reply, holding up a tiny coin purse. 

"In time my friend, in time," the thin man, Posthumous replied, jogging down the nearest dune and grinding to a halt in front of the group of horsemen. "I am a man of limited means." 

"And I'm a man of limited patience," Anan growled. For a moment, Harry though that Anan was going to strike the thin man across his face, but then the chieftain surprised everyone by drawing Posthumous into a tight embrace. "It's been too long," he smiled, breaking the tension. 

"It has," Posthumous agreed, untangling himself from the horseman's firm grasp. "But not time wasted. I've learned that he docks in Carthage in a week's time." There was a maniacal glint in Posthumous's eye, an intensity that reminded Harry slightly of Mad-Eye Moody. 

"Not now, Posthumous. I have a crisis on my hands," Anan gestured around at the burned village, an expression of anger on his face. "Bandits are stealing the tribe's children, burning our homes and killing our horses. I have to make contact with our allies in the mountains." 

"Not the giants, Anan!" Posthumous began, his skin and bone face darkening into a scowl. But whatever was wrong with the giants, Harry would never learn, for upon catching sight of Posthumous's companions, he simply ceased to listen. He had never though that he would be so glad in his life to see Viktor Krum. 

Krum smiled back at Harry. Never had Harry seen such a grin stretched across the Bulgarian Seeker's face. 

"Hello, Viktor," Harry beamed, feeling a wave of incredible relief wash over him. 

"Harry," Viktor acknowledged, nodding as the second man stepped forward. 

Harry felt as if something inside of his was about to explode. All his doubt, confusion and insecurity melted away. There was no mistaking it, it would really be alright. "Professor Lupin," he grinned madly. 

Romulus stopped dead in his tracks, biting back the automatic sneer. For the fist time in his life, he had no idea what to say. There was something about Harry Potter, something beyond all of legend, something so hopeful and alive and innately good that Romulus felt all his walls crumble away out from under him, leaving him on a level plain, exposed, face to face with this expectant boy. 

A single fact grew prevalent in his mind. Harry Potter was genuine. He had no hidden motivation, no secret game. Harry was pure untapped truth. The smile he gave Romulus was real, no product of a drug-induced high. Ebbing withdrawal or not, Romulus couldn't bring himself to taunt this boy who had awakened something in him he had thought long dead, this boy who made him _feel_. 

"I'm not Professor Lupin," Romulus said, stumbling on his words like a child first learning to walk. "I'm his brother. Romulus." 

And for the first time in fifteen years, Romulus Lupin honestly smiled. 

----

The Locates spell worked like, well, a charm. Though only a thin red trail of light snaking from the tip of Sirius's wand it pulled them all, Remus, Ron, and Hermione like a lodestone. Fragile and thin as it was, that light was all that connected them to Harry Potter, the boy that had drawn them together and somehow, inexplicably, changed them. So they could only helplessly follow, watching as the sand melded into scrubby brush and the dunes into rolling foothills. They climbed higher and higher, hillocks changing into mountains, always following that red trail of light. 

Remus could never say how long they climbed, maybe it was some effect of the Locates spell, but forever seemed to roll by when no time had really past at all. They could have been following the charm for days; hours, centuries and none of them would know the difference. They were lost in their own parcel of time, fragmented and whole, focused on their single quest. 

And then, the lazy tranquility that had invaded all of their minds just broke. 

Remus shook his head slightly, feeling as if he had emerged out of a dense fog. He shut his eyes and then opened them, to be faced with Vix, who looked more than a little confused. 

"Where are we?" It was Ron, who was looking around the mountains with a rather dazed expression on his face. Remus shook his head again. He felt Ron's confusion, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember leaving the desert. 

"The charm," it was Sirius, his voice sounding more gruff than usual. "It's gone." He held up his wand, and no red light trailed out of the end. 

"Then where's Harry?" Hermione said, a flicker of worry crossing her face. 

"Shhh--" Ron held up his hand. "I think I hear something."

Remus strained his ears, and sure enough, there was an unfamiliar sound drifting over the nearest bluff: laughter, music, chatter; alien noises after two days in the deep desert. 

Cautiously, the five of them crept up the hillock, skulking wordlessly, alert for any sign of danger. Suddenly a big bellowing voice nearly jarred Remus out of his scull, "Liok (_hic)_ I always said, there (_hic_) ain't no one who makes the bleedin' (_hic hic_) whisky better than Grunn'ilda!" the voice finished to be seconded by a round of drunken cheers. 

Ron and Hermione exchanged a simultaneous grin of delight. "Hagrid!" they screamed in unison as they ran over the hill.

Remus couldn't help but smiling as he followed them. There was Hagrid, two beer steins in his meaty hands. He had given up trying to drink; now nearly smothered by both Ron and Hermione. Harry, who had been sitting between Romulus and a nomad Remus didn't know leapt up and began running towards Sirius, who looked happier than Remus had seen him in days. Olympe Maxime was there, roasting sausages over a fire with Viktor Krum and a woman so large Beauxboton's headmistress looked positively petite. As Remus stared around, he realized that most of the lumps he had mistaken as foothills were actually people. These giants were mingling among the smaller humans with relative ease. He was beginning to wonder how many giants there actually were when he got the shock of a lifetime. 

"Hello, Remus." Blinking dumbly, Moony found himself staring into the crisp blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore.

----

An icy wind whistled a bittersweet croon through the tiny holes between the cement skyscrapers, its high-pitched squeal reminiscent of a banshee's scream. 

A cry of death inescapable. 

Gripping the door frame, Gabriel stumbled out of the Ministry lab, icy wind biting him through to the core. 

But he couldn't feel any colder than he already was. 

Gabriel slid on a patch of ice and instinctively threw his hands out in front of him, cringing inwardly as the asphalt dug into his palm. 

Over. 

It was all over. 

Every drop of hope, heart, humanity had been wrung out of him, whipped away by the ice cold wind to be shelved in a manila file folder bearing a single name. 

The name of his downfall. 

His devil. 

His father. 

And still the tears wouldn't come. They were lost like everything else, in a vat of extreme emptiness. 

"Cox," Gabriel didn't even look up, though the Scottish brogue was unmistakable. He remained frozen on the pavement, while his heart beat a steady drone in his ears. 

"Cox." Gabriel couldn't bring himself to face Mad-Eye Moody. He couldn't look upon the old auror who was the well of all his suffering and pain. If it wasn't for Moody and his godforsaken quest for revenge, Gabriel wouldn't be lying in the icy gutter of this frozen street, bitter and cold, dead to life. If it wasn't for Moody, he would still have a job, he would still have a home, he would still be the son of Sejanus Cox. 

"Cox!" Moody took a step closer to Gabriel's motionless form, prodding the younger wizard with his peg leg. "Get up and fight like a man, Cox!" Moody's voice rang hard in Gabriel's ears. 

Still he didn't move. 

"Get up!" Moody's wooden leg hit Gabriel full across the back. With the harsh blow, Gabriel felt a wave of anger wash over him. "Cox! Get up!" Mad-Eye yelled. 

"I'm not," Gabriel looked up at Moody, suddenly finding his voice. He spoke in such a low growl however, that his tone was almost unrecognizable. 

"Not what?" Moody snorted, hard pressed to take the cowering Gabriel seriously. 

"Not Cox," Gabriel hissed, a sneering smile creeping across his face when he saw the confusion flash across Moody's own features. _Let the old man wonder_, he thought. Wonder led to questions and questions led to fear. 

A sudden though crossed Gabriel's mind. It was a thought that a thought that would have made his cringe in revulsion a month, a week, even a day earlier. But in the last hour his life had shattered into pieces that try as he might, could never again make a whole. The happy-go-lucky reporter who worked for Dumbledore and ordered Chinese at two AM while listening to old Ramones's albums was dead. He was not Cox, and he didn't ever have to be again. 

"What the devil do you mean--" but Moody's words were cut off in a strangled scream as Gabriel gripped his wooden leg and pulled him down hard. Moody's peg snapped in two as he hit the pavement. The old man grunted and tried to pull himself up, but his left arm was twisted at an impossible angle, broken and useless. 

Instantly, Gabriel leapt on top of the Auror, pushing Moody flush up against the asphalt. Every ounce of pain, every second of suffering, every pint of angst initiated by the old man welled up inside Gabriel, exploding outwards with a force a thousand times more powerful than Moody's bitter hatred. 

Gabriel raised his fist and brought it down hard upon the Auror's scarred visage, causing Moody's glass eye to pop out of its socket, shattering into a thousand pieces as it hit the pavement. Moody made a strangled noise of protest, but Gabriel only hit him harder, picking up the old man's scull and smashing it down upon the icy curb. He repeated the beating again and again until the scull grew soft and mushy in his hands. Reason and sanity stood by and watched him, laughing.

Then, without warning, he stopped. 

Gabriel stared blankly at the corpse, at the bits of blood and brain and bone scattered across the curbside like confetti. He shut his eyes. Then opened them. 

Moody was still there. 

He wanted to cry. 

But he couldn't. 

Gabriel bit his lip, but it was already to late, he was hardening on the inside and he was powerless to stop it. Staring at the ruined corpse, splayed in the street like a rag doll, he could only feel a grim sort of satisfaction. 

__

Well, that was that.

Gabriel knew what he had to do. 

Slowly, Gabriel staggered to his feet, leaving a bloody handprint on the curb where he gripped it for support. Leaving Moody in the gutter, Gabriel walked calmly down the sidewalk to where a Muggle phone booth stood. Staggering a little as he strode inside, he dialed the main number for the Ministry, a little-known code he had learned in his stint at the Prophet. Gabriel noticed with an almost bemused satisfaction that every time his finger touched the telephone's buttons, the turned the white plastic a deep red. 

The phone rang. 

Once. 

Twice. 

"Hello?" A crisp secretarial voice sounded from the other end, jarring Gabriel slightly. 

Gabriel took a deep breath before beginning. "Tell Minister Malfoy that Gabriel Cox is taking him up on his offer--" A dial tone cut him off. Phone still at his ear, Gabriel looked up. A long thin finger was on the receiver, pushing it down, and ending his call. 

"That won't be necessary," a smooth voice hissed in his ear as the hand let go of the receiver and wrapped itself around Gabriel's throat, tracing the line of his jaw. 

Gabriel let the phone slide out of his bloody grip; not even daring to turn around as the stranger with the smooth voice inched closer to him. "Oh that's not necessary at all," Lord Voldemort purred, "Not for my little Lucifer." 

----

****

Next up on As the Empire Turns: A long a treacherous PLOT CHAPTER. All is revealed, Dumbledore explains, Posthumous schemes, Remus and Romulus have some twin angst, Moody stays dead, and Pettigrew tries his hand at drug dealing! All in all, everyone talks far too much for their own good :O)

Hey to everyone out there! NB- This chapter is un-beta-ed because I wanted to let Rowena have fun on her Spring Break (while I'm at school ::grrrr:: :O) ) Anan's revenge speech was in Portuguese, which he obviously would not be speaking, I couldn't find a site online that translated Arabic/Aramaic, and I'm not fluent in either :O). Also, I am taking horrible liberties with history and geography and I apologize to any Ancient Roman buffs out there. 

Thanks to everyone that reviewed the last one: FrogWizard, Silimay, Pandora Souris-Cadavre (yes, all of my knowledge of Ancient Rome comes from I Claudius :: I'm sorry!:: and I am taking a horrible author's license with history that I'm afraid will only get worse :O) ), my favourite CLS, Kerr, Viktor'sGurl (I do believe we're the only Hermione/Viktor people on ff.net :O), if there's any more of you out there you have seen the light, drop me a line), lucynoir (my little sister, so she gets an extra smile :O) ), Jane, Moon (I'm more than a little glad you decided to come back with Fowl Play, awesome! Quack, quack indeed :O) ), Kat, Juliana my one and only dancin' queen, Merlin the Owl (gotta love the sn, you fit right in with the plot :O) ), Lucinda, Erica (Good luck at Crew :O), and thanks for reviewing), Altra (I'm sorry, there won't be much Draco :O(, tho Lucius will pop up in a bit), Amanita Lestrange, my lovely beta, who's having fun on Spring Break while I get to slave away at school… Rowena Alana, Key, NS, Rogstar, my fav. little spider :O) Aragog, Katie Bell (To answer your Minister question, Malfoy bribed his way in), Kali ma (it is rather Star Wars, isn't it :O) )

And thanks to everyone that reviewed Warsaw: NS, orion, CLS, no name, Lady Ev, Juliana, Katie Bell, PixyChick, Kerr, Hermione 2000, chocolate fireguard, Rooty Beer!, Anne, Sorceress, Viktor'sGurl, Amandah, Rowena Alana, netshark, Crystal Music, Crymson Tyrdrop, magical*little*me, EowynStar, lucynoir, Landry Anne, Aurora Light, Erica, RavenLady, Labyrinth Dumbledore

Please **Read and Review**, and I love you all :O)


	10. Dark Origins

Pettigrew opened the door to his chambers, flinching slightly as the death eater stanind guard coughed.  __

DISCLAIMER- In this part, I mangle history beyond any recognition. I apologize profusely to any Ancient Roman buffs out there and beg you to please suspend your disbelief. 

****

PHOENIX ASCENDING X-- Dark Origins

Peter Pettigrew opened the door to his chambers, flinching slightly as the Death Eater standing guard gave a nervous cough. 

"Yes?" Pettigrew raised a graying eyebrow. He noted with a smug satisfaction that the servant lowered his eyes rather than making contact with Pettigrew's own. 

"H--he," the man's voice trembled uncontrollably, so he cleared his throat to try again. "_He_ has arrived, m-my lord." Two months earlier, the guard would have been laughing in Wormtail's face, but Pettigrew had learned over many years of personal experience that the strong ruled the weak. Now, thanks to Voldemort's gift of the silver hand, he had the strength to rule, to command, and to oppress. After many long years of waiting, power was literally in his grasp. Pettigrew flexed the fingers of his silver hand fondly, holding it up so it caught the desert sunlight filtering in through a rough-hewn window. 

"He who?" Pettigrew snapped. The guard opened his mouth to reply, but no sound came out, an expression of absolute terror stretched across the man's gaunt features. "He who?" Pettigrew repeated, reaching out and gripping the guard's arm with his silver hand. Ever so gently, Wormtail squeezed. He smirked in pleasure when the servant cried out in pain. "Now tell me who has arrived, you ignorant piece of filth, and tell me quickly because I don't want to spend any more listening to your disgusting voice than what is absolutely necessary," Pettigrew roared, accenting each word with a squeeze. 

"H-he," the man was sobbing with absolute terror and pain. "He-who-must-not-be-named!" he finally choked out. "He-who-must-not-be-named is w-waiting for you in your ch-chambers, milord." 

He gave a snarl of disbelief; the servant was obviously lying. Violently, Pettigrew tossed the guard aside, who trembled in a crumbled heap. He lay splayed against the wall, as if he were a rag-doll. 

Spitting as he past the quavering man, Pettigrew strode into his chambers. He was looking forward to taking a long relaxing bubble bath while leafing through So_ You Wanna Commit Crimes Against Humanity? Becoming an Evil Overlord in 5 Easy Steps_. Reciting the first tenet firmly to himself in his head (_Get Corporate Sponsorship_), Pettigrew nearly jumped straight out of his wrinkly skin. The door had slammed shut behind him. 

He had not closed it. 

Trembling, his heart in his throat, Pettigrew turned around. There was no one there. He took a deep steadying breath, almost laughing at himself. It must have been the breeze. "Boo." Pettigrew gave a nervous cry not unlike that of a wounded wombat. Spinning around wildly, he was confronted with a soft chuckle. 

"Hello, Wormtail," Lord Voldemort was perched in a particularly large easy chair, his red eyes smirking up at his servant over the top of an ridiculously enormous self-help book. 

Wormtail licked his lips, feeling his voice quaver when he spoke. "M-master," he stammered. Not for the first time in his life, Peter Pettigrew was at a total loss for words. 

Voldemort turned the heavy tome over, humming quietly to himself. "_The Idiot's Guide to Being Evil_," he read the title aloud, heavy sarcasm dripping from his voice. "I found this on your bookshelf and thought I'd take a peek. You've found the perfect series, Wormtail, considering the lack of substance between your most disgusting ears. I have my own chapter you know," Voldemort smirked. "Right between Charles Manson and Martha Stewart." He gave a long sigh. "It feels so good to be appreciated, though the editors have gotten some of their facts wrong. I most definitely do not eat raw squirrels for breakfast. That went out of style with Edgar the Evil Ethiopian Eunuch. Then again, what do you expect from idiots? _Wingardium Levosia_," he purred lazily, waving his wand as the book flew pack to its place on Pettigrew's library shelf. It nestled itself between _Mother N. Law's Guide to Psychological Torture_ and _Evil Wizards: Deep Down, We're Just Softies_. 

"To what do I owe this honor, my lord," Pettigrew choked, bowing so low that his nose touched the floor. In truth, he was more than a little alarmed at Voldemort's sudden burst of sarcasm. He couldn't help to shake off the feeling that his master was playing with him. 

"Oh spare me the sniveling, Wormtail," Voldemort snarled, flicking his hand. "It's truly disgusting, but while you're down there, would you mind licking my boots? It's been a while since I've gotten a shine." 

Pettigrew stood there, his fat lips quivering in shock. He was about to protest when his common sense kicked in. What choice did he really have? Wormtail was dealing with Lord Voldemort. Ever so slowly he bent down and ran his gleaming purple tongue over the Dark Lord's shoes. Voldemort hadn't lied, his boots were quite dirty and Pettigrew found himself having to lick through so many layers of mud he would not be remotely surprised if he eventually hit fossils. As for Voldemort, he had a huge grin plastered across his reptilian face. The evil wizard was absolutely delighted at causing his minion so much discomfort.

"I came here into the past to see how our plans are progressing," the Dark Lord hissed, drumming his fingers on Wormtail's baldpate. "I trust the fortress is complete?" 

"Mrgh," Wormtail muttered. His mouth was so full of mud it was impossible to make a coherent reply. 

"Excellent," Voldemort smiled. "And as worthless as you are, you have managed to create the Innocintus Wards I commissioned?" 

"Yes," Pettigrew gasped, looking up from his Lord's boot. Trembling, he wiped the dirt off his lips. "The wards are complete, only a creature of dark origins can enter this fortress in which we are standing. We had to steal some children from the Himyarties for the Innocintus Potion," Pettigrew added. Seeing the blank look on his master's face, he continued. "Himyarties are the native mudblood horsemen, my lord." 

"Fool! I know what Himyarties are," Voldemort snapped, slapping Pettigrew atop the head. 

"Ow!" he squealed before he could stop himself. "I mean, thank you, my lord," he amended, starting at the sight of Voldemort's unamused glare. 

"Wormtail, Wormtail," the Dark Lord purred. "When will you learn to keep your mouth shut and spare us the agony of listening to your drivel?" 

"I... I know, my lord," Pettigrew said quietly, bowing his head in fear. 

"Take care you remember," the Dark Lord's voice was a guttural growl as he reached out and gripped his minion by the chin. "Next time, I will not be so forgiving," he jerked his hand away from Pettigrew's chin, raking his nails across the man's pudgy throat in the process. Suppressing a cry of pain, Wormtail forced his hands to remain by his sides. Wrenching pain aside, he could feel the blood drip slowly down the curve of his throat, into his robes and down his chest. As Voldemort reached forward again, he felt a wave of sheer terror wash over him, coupled by innate revulsion as the man's bone white fingers gently laced around his throat. "There is no place for disobedience within my followers. I can kill you, and I will. You are nothing to me, Wormtail, nothing at all." Voldemort's laugh was high pitched and self-satisfied, rolling across Pettigrew like a bolt from the heavens. Ever so gently, Voldemort drew his fingers away. Pettigrew collapsed into a relieved slump as the Dark Lord gazed at his hands longingly. His fingertips, bone white, were stained a vivid crimson by Pettigrew's blood. Still smiling at his minion, Voldemort extended his tongue and licked at the red fluid, sucking all of his fingers clean. His grin only broadened at the look of absolute disgust on Wormtail's features. 

"I... I trust your ride was pleasant my lord," Pettigrew stammered, trying desperately to change the subject before Voldemort lost his temper again. 

"As pleasant as a ride by Greyvillian Responder can be," Voldemort sneered, staring at Pettigrew with subdued amusement. "Though I daresay it would be much more enjoyable if I didn't have to see your ugly mug." 

Pettigrew gave a nervous laugh, leaping to his feet before Voldemort could ask him to lick between his toes or something equally repulsive. "Of course, of course. Well I'll remove myself in that case--" 

"Fool! I have not given you permission to retire!" Voldemort screeched, nearly leaping from his recliner. He motioned Pettigrew a few feet closer to himself, which his servant did, rather unwillingly. "I am here to talk business, not to suit your needs and wants. Do you understand me, Wormtail?" 

"Yes, yes, my mistake, milord," Pettigrew sniveled, bowing deeply. He was trying to disguise that his hands were trembling. 

"It is always your mistake, Wormtail," Voldemort ran a skeletal hand over his jaw. "You are sure we can transport this entire fortress into the future, wards included, once we've properly subjugated the Giants?" 

"Of course," Wormtail chirped, his knees still shaking. "And if we can't, look on the bright side my lord. Property taxes are much less in the Roman Empire."

Voldemort was not amused. "You know how I deal with failure, Wormtail," he hissed, pointing at his servant's bloody throat as his red eyes glittered maliciously. 

"Yes, yes, of course," Pettigrew stammered, throwing in a rather shallow bow for good measure. 

Voldemort just smiled, and Pettigrew couldn't help but shake off the feeling that his master was laughing at him. "There's someone I want you to meet, Wormtail." 

"W-who, my lord?" Pettigrew felt his blood run cold. All of Voldemort's friends were usually undead, unwashed, unwed and all around unappetizing. 

"You can come out now," Voldemort purred softly as a figure emerged from the shadows behind Pettigrew. "Wormtail, this is Lucifer." 

It was a young man about a foot taller than Pettigrew himself, his features hidden by a long black cloak drawn over his face. Wormtail felt a chill ran up his spine, Lucifer's menacing form was not unlike that of a dementor. 

"_The_ Lucifer, milord?" Wormtail asked, his throat growing dry as his confusion deepened. Lucifer, the legendary Death Eater, had been in his grave for almost fifteen years. 

Voldemort only smiled. "Lucifer just killed Mad-Eye Moody," he said without really answering Pettigrew at all. 

Wormtail looked up at the cloaked figure nervously. Somehow, he did not relish the ides of becoming aquatinted with a fifteen-year-dead-zombie. "Er, hello?" he ventured timidly. 

Lucifer said nothing in reply, only extending a blackened hand out from the depths of his sleeve. Out of sheer terror and nothing more, Pettigrew took it. He noticed with a sickening shock that Lucifer's hand was red with welts and caked with blood. Peter drew away quickly, feeling the other man's eyes on his neck. 

"I have one more task for you, Wormtail," Lord Voldemort hissed as Pettigrew's heart dropped straight through the bottom of his ribs. He was still staring at Lucifer's puffy, malformed hand, the soot clinging to it like a second skin. He felt a shudder of revulsion creep up his spine. 

"Your wish is my command," he said mechanically, wanting with every ounce of soul to tell the Dark Lord to fuck off and run off to a safe little hole where he could take bubblebaths and read self-help books to his heart's content. 

"What do you know," Lord Voldemort purred as he pulled out a small red vial. "About dragon's blood?" 

----

__

A darkened room, hewn of stone. 

A sputtering fire in a grate, burning closer to death with every tiny flicker of flame. 

An oaken table, round as the earth itself, with seats as numerous as the stars. 

Harry found himself in one of these chairs, his head in his hands. Sitting up abruptly, he saw that his fingers were wet with tears. It was another dream. By now, he was used to them. Harry simply let go, giving himself up completely into the vision. 

"Father." It was Draco Malfoy, lounging casually against the rough-hewn door of the castle. 

"Mordred," Harry felt himself reply, his voice toneless and dead. 

"So, have you decided?" Mordred's voice was eager, far too eager, as he sidled over to where Harry sat. 

"Decided what?" Harry said weakly. 

Mordred snorted, disbelieving. "Whether or not you will burn your whore of a wife for high treason." 

"Guinevere is no whore!" Harry's voice rose in anger as he smashed his fist down upon the round table. 

Mordred leapt up onto the table, crouching down so that he was on the same eye level as Harry. "She betrayed you. She violated your marriage vows with your best friend. She killed all the trust and love you've ever had for her, Arthur." 

Arthur. The name set off alarm bells in Harry's head, as everything began to slowly click together: the round table, Gawain, Lancelot, Ginny... Mordred. Half-remembered fairy-tales rushed back to Harry as real memory, an existence lived and past more than 1500 years before his present life. His fingers trembling, Harry looked down at the blade bound to his hip. His fingers slowly, almost lovingly, traced the words engraved onto its hilt. Rex Quondam Rexque Futurus._ He did not need Hermione to translate the Latin. _

The Once and Future King. 

Harry felt a chill run up his spine. He was King Arthur. Draco, Sirius, and Ron were all old souls, whom he had known in countless lives before his own. He lived in constant flux, always fighting, never gaining much of a foothold, but striving on for right, good, life. This was not dream. It was a memory. 

Mordred gazed at Harry curiously, his gray eyes narrowing in suspicion. His scathing drawl brought Harry back to the present, or rather, the past. "The men are calling for you to burn Guinevere. Need I remind you that the punishment for adultery is death? You wrote that law yourself." Scorn dripped from his voice, scorn that would sound identical in his other incarnation, born almost 1500 years later.

Harry licked his lips, and if he could find any humor inside of him, he would have smiled at the irony. But it was all too much to bear. "This could destroy everything we've worked for, Mordred." He paused slightly, staring around the round table. "I've spent my entire life uniting Britain. Knights that were enemies now embrace each other as brethren, united under the law." 

"Yes..." Mordred rolled his eyes, obviously quite bored. 

Harry ignored him, "If I set Guinevere free, I will flout the very law our kingdom is built upon. I will destroy everything this table has stood for 25 years: freedom, liberty, and justice. But if I burn her, I'm killing my own conscience, my soul, my love." 

"That whore deserves no love of yours!" Mordred spat violently, leaping to his feet upon the round table. It gave an awful creak, but Mordred stood firm, towering over Harry. "She's been screwing Lancelot for the last twenty years! They were together in your marriage bed when we caught them. He was ravaging her, again and again and again," With every word, Mordred took a step closer to Harry until they were almost touching. The tension between the two men was palpable, something sentient, as it stretched from one to the other, ripping the air like a lash of a whip. Mordred reached forward, gripping Harry about the shoulder and dropping his tirade to a mere whisper. "The only thing louder than the moans of pleasure were the curses she threw upon your name." Harry said nothing; his head pulling him one way while his heart beat out another path. Mordred's next words would change history: "She doesn't love you." 

With a sickening lurch, the Arthur within Harry knew it was true. "Let her burn," he whispered.

Mordred let out a wild whoop of triumph, leaping off the roundtable and rushing from the great hall to spread the word of Guinevere's demise. 

Unbidden, a voice echoed in Harry's brain, a line from a time so far away, "If the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy, remember what happened to a boy who was good, and kind, and brave... remember Cedric Diggory." 

His sword fell to the ground with a clatter, the dull ringing noise it made when it fit the floor all too reminiscent of the sound made a Hufflepuff boy not yet born, when his corpse fell to the ground of a graveyard that hadn't yet been constructed. The sound of the falling sword made him remember a cool summer night 1500 years in the future. 

An image came to Harry's mind, a woman's head, screaming as flames slowly consumed her body. Somehow, he knew it was Arthur's Guinevere and yet, in that tortured face, all he could see were the features of Cedric Diggory. 

This was Arthur's ultimate decision, a choice between what was good and what was easy. The High King of Britain betrayed his own heart and taken the primrose path. Now, his innocent wife would pay the consequences, just as Cedric had died for Harry five months ago and 1500 years in the future. 

"Wait!" Harry called out, ready to change Arthur's ruling, change history, but the dream was already fading. 

It was too late for Arthur...

..."Sirius!" Harry had dragged his godfather halfway across the campsite to a tiny log by the fire. "This is Romulus." 

The thin man with the mop of brown hair looked up from the flames, a touch of amusement in his stormy gray eyes. Sirius felt a tightening in his chest as his lip drew itself up into a sneer he usually reserved for Snape alone. Romulus's reply was terse. "We've met." Breaking free of Harry, Sirius knelt down so that he was at Romulus's level. Slowly, their eyes me. He felt a wave of rage at the mocking sneer on the addict's face. "Heart still set in killing me, Black?" 

If Harry hadn't been watching, Sirius would have gone straight for Romulus's throat, but instead he kept his hands flush to his side, although they clenched into fists. "No," he hissed, growling from deep within his throat. "I'm just wondering why you're not dead yet." 

"If you wait long enough," it was Romulus, his gravely voice almost amused. "We're all corpses." 

"What?" Sirius jerked his head up, as Harry knelt down beside him. With a pang of shame, he loosened his fists, unwilling to let his godson see the violent temper he had once been famed for. 

"I'm trying to say it doesn't matter whether I live or die," Romulus retorted harshly. 

Harry let the moment hang for a second before replying. "You really don't believe that." 

"How do you know?" the twin said defensively. 

"I don't know," Harry replied quietly. "It's an instinct." Romulus looked away bitterly, dropping his head into his hands once more, rubbing his temples harshly, as if he was trying to expel something lodged between them. Concerned, Harry tilted his own head to the side. "Are you all right?" 

Romulus did not reply, looking down at the floor. Harry was about to turn away when he took a deep breath. "No. But I will be." 

"Do you need anything?" Harry asked automatically, concern filling him. 

Romulus's smile was bittersweet. "Not anymore." 

----

"Er..." Remus found himself quite speechless as he peered into the clear blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore. "What are you doing here?" 

Dumbledore didn't seem the least bit unfazed by Remus's lack of welcome. "Lucius Malfoy put out a warrant for my arrest and I was forced to flee Hogwarts. Since I had information that was of some interest to the Giants, I came here by Greyvillian Responder." 

"What the hell is going on?" Sirius's voice gave words to the thought on every mind. All eyes turned to focus on the one man who seemed to have all the answers. In spite of himself, Albus Dumbledore blushed. 

So they found themselves clustered around the campfire, bewildered and waiting for some sort of explanation to make sense of the insanity. Harry himself was seated between Sirius and Romulus, who were watching Hagrid with an amused stare. The Hogwarts gamekeeper was too plastered to sit down, so he was being supported, rather unsuccessfully, by two of Anan's horsemen. They both looked about ready to collapse under the strain of the half-giant's enormous and inebriated bulk. 

"Ahem," Dumbledore cleared his throat, looking around at the haphazard camp of Brits, Giants, Horsemen and Romans. "First and foremost, it is our solemn duty as guests to thank the Giants for their hospitality." There was a lukewarm scattering of applause in which Dumbledore bowed to the mountain of a woman who had been toasting marshmallows with Maxime. "Over the past few decades I've gotten to know Grunhilda, Queen of the Giants, very well indeed. Right now, I would like to turn over our discussion to this very lovely lady," his eye twinkled mischievously as Grunhilda blushed. 

"Oh, Albus," she waved a pudgy hand dismissively. "You're embarrassing me." She gave a girlish titter before continuing. "I'd like to welcome you all to our humble home, and hope we can give you the best hospitality available in the short hours we have left here." 

"Short hours?" Anan spoke up for the first time, his dark face concerned. "You Giants have lived in these hills for almost thirty years." 

Grunhilda gave Anan a sympathetic stare. "Times change, my dear. This isn't the kind world it used to be." 

"What is going on?" Anan turned his furor to the one man who seemed to have the slightest inkling of what was about to transpire: Dumbledore. 

Dumbledore ran his hands together, a funny closed look on his face. "Many things are 'going on', as you so aptly put it." 

"You know what he is talking about, old man," a voice hissed. It was Posthumous, a look of absolute annoyance on his skintight face. 

Dumbledore's crisp smile did not waver for an instant. "The Giants are in horrible danger, and they must leave their refuge before they are annihilated." 

"What?" Anan's face went red, the firelight flickering menacingly off his blade. "You're lying!" 

Hagrid may have been drunk out of his skull, but he could not take this new shot at Dumbledore's dignity. "What kind o' bleedin' ragnosed bastard do yeh think yeh are--" 

"Hagrid, please," Grunhilda held up her hand and the half-giant fell silent, much to the relief of the two tribesmen supporting his indignant inebriated bulk. "Anan, I realize why you are upset, we Giants have been friends with your people ever since we first arrived in these hills 25 years ago." 

"And now is the time that we are in the most need your friendship!" Innoch cut the Giant queen off desperately. Anan looked somewhat taken aback at this outburst, giving his youngest horseman a skeptical glare. "Bandits from the deep desert are attacking our villages, burning them to the ground and stealing our children!" 

"Innoch--" Anan hissed between clenched teeth, obviously seeing his son-in-law's outburst as a loss of dignity. 

"Well it's true!" The younger man exclaimed. He gestured wildly around the campfire. "Today, Harran here lost his family to these abominations! I don't wish to see my wife and son burnt to death when I return home!" Harry was somewhat taken aback by this exclamation, in his reckoning Innoch could not have been any older that 21. 

"We can handle the bandits," Anan said, the look on his face absolute livid.

"No we can't!" Innoch said forcefully, watching Anan's expression growing increasingly furious. "We need the help of your Giants, Grunhilda, and if we don't have it, hundreds of our people could die. We're powerless against these invaders!" 

"Innoch!" Anan roared, his brown hands clamped into fists. "Son-in-law or not, what are you trying to do to me?" The horseman glanced around the camp nervously before lowering his voice to a menacing hiss. "Are you trying to make us look weak?" 

"No," Innoch's face held a small smile. "I'm trying to save our lives." 

Grunhilda gave a small cough, obviously quite embarrassed at having interrupted the argument. She gave an apologetic smile to both parties before continuing. "Innoch, I'm terribly sorry, but we too are powerless." At this proclamation, Anan gave a frustrated groan, but Grunhilda pointedly ignored him. "Twenty five years ago, we Giants lived in the north of Britain. The year was 1969, and the Minister of Magic was a man named Otto O'Beanstalk. To make a long story short, Otto despised us Giants, one of his forebears was a man named Jack O'Beanstalk, and he got into some nasty squabbles with some of our ancestors. I believe there was a short fight over a golden chicken, But," Grunhilda gave a grin, "I digress." O'Beanstalk painted us as evil, dark creatures who ate full grown men for dinner and popped human babies like after dinner mints." There was a slight titter among the horsemen at this stereotype. "The British public had always been slightly mistrustful of us Giants and O'Beanstalk's propaganda just fanned the flames. Soon, the wizards were burning our forests and attacking our settlements. We were forced to flee for our lives, and so we turned to the one man whom we trusted. Albus Dumbledore," A warm smile spread across Grunhilda's face as she looked at Dumbledore fondly. "Albus gave us a Greyvillian Responder and urged us to hide in the one place where O'Beanstalk would never think to look for us: the past." 

"So the Giants came here," Dumbledore interjected, his lined face suddenly becoming even heavier. "But now a new threat has transpired to threaten their safety." 

"A war is waging in the future we left behind," Grunhilda said urgently to Anan. "A Dark Wizard named Voldemort is threatening the security of modern Britain. Albus has learned through spies that Voldemort has traveled back to this time with the intention of subjugating us Giants to do his evil bidding. Since the beginnings of our race, Giants have never concerned themselves in human affairs. We have even refused to help Albus fight this Voldemort, despite the opposite urgings of my most excellent Mr. Hagrid," at this Hagrid gave an appreciative belch before lapsing again into his drunken stupor. "Voldemort will not be as understanding of our neutrally as Albus was. We must once again flee, this time back to the home that we left, modern day Britain, which has the proper magical technology to protect us. If we stay here, we will undoubtedly be forced into working for Voldemort." 

"This Voldemort," Innoch began hesitantly, ignoring Anan's pained stare. "Is he your Pettigrew?" 

With a start, Harry realized Innoch was talking to him. "No, but Pettigrew is one of his men--" 

"Wormtail is here?" Sirius tone was so low it seemed almost like a feral growl.

"He's the one stealing the horsemen's babies," Harry said, almost afraid of the bloodthirsty grin on his godfather's face. 

"That complicates things," Dumbledore said quietly, almost to himself. 

"How so?" Remus Lupin looked up from his place by the Asian woman, whom Harry vaguely remembered as Vix. 

"I have learned through spies that Voldemort is creating a fortress in the Roman desert. He plans to use it to subjugate the Giants to his will and then transport the whole castle into the future so he can use it as his base of operations. My spies have not been able to obtain the exact ward spells Voldemort plans to use on such a construction. However, the fact that he is stealing babies leads me to only one conclusion," Dumbledore took a breath. "Voldemort must be using the Innocintus Ward." 

"And what is that?" Posthumous's tone was skeptical and full of sarcasm. 

Dumbledore ignored him. "It is a ward spell created by a potion which's main ingredient is the life blood of innocent children. The blood potion is then mixed into the foundations of a building, rendering it impenetrable to everyone, except creatures of dark origins. Only evil sorcerers, black wizards, monsters, and creatures of dark magic would ever be able to enter Voldemort's fortress. Once he has an impenetrable castle, none of us would be able to so much as touch a hair on the Dark Lord's head. Of course the Innocintus Ward is powerful dark magic and I doubt that any except Voldemort would dare attempt such a spell. And since Mr. Riddle has performed the Oedipii Curse, he is essentially invincible." 

"He performed the Oedipii Curse?" Hermione's eyes were wide with terror, but no one else, adults included, seemed to know what it was. 

"He did indeed, Hermione," Dumbledore said quietly. "Oedipii is another dark hex. Once performed on a human, he is unable to be killed by any natural cause or person except those who have the same blood running through their veins." 

Harry felt as if a thunder bolt struck him straight on, singing through to the core. Voldemort had no known descendants or relatives, so that meant that there was only one person in the world who shared his blood. Ever since that fateful night in early summer, Harry had carried a scar on his upper arm, marking where Wormtail's dagger has pierced his skin. His blood has resurrected the Dark Lord, and now it may be the only key to bringing him down. Sirius, staring at Harry, seemed to be reading his thoughts. However, instead of sharing Harry's grim determination, Padfoot looked horrified. "No," he said forcefully. 

"What, Sirius?" Dumbledore asked gently. 

"Harry will have nothing to do with any scheme you're cooking up," Sirius said firmly, his hands clenching into fists as he spoke. "He's been through enough already." 

"I'm afraid it would be impossible to keep Harry out of it," Dumbledore replied quietly. 

"Sirius," Harry said quietly, feeling his insides melt at the look of horror on his godfather's face. "If Dumbledore is right, I'm the only one who can do anything to harm Voldemort."

"You're fifteen fucking years old!" Sirius yelled, his ragged black hair falling into his face as he spoke. "When I was fifteen I didn't even know who Lord Voldemort was and I didn't have to care. I had a childhood--" 

"Sirius!" Looking up, Harry saw it was Remus. Warning filled his haggard gray face. Sirius remained silent for a moment, his brown eyes blazing as Remus gave him a cautioning glare. Amazingly, Sirius backed down, giving Harry a pained stare that looked on the brink of tears as he retreated even farther into his cloud of anger and resentment. Hardly wanting to admit it to himself, Harry was forced to realize that he agreed with Sirius. He wanted to run away from it all, go to school, hang out with his friends, grow up _normally_. The last thing he wanted to do was face Lord Voldemort again, he just did not believe that the choice was his own. 

"Harry will do nothing to threaten his own safety," Dumbledore said soothingly as Sirius stared moodily off into the night. "You know I would never thrust him into danger knowingly, Sirius." 

Sirius made no reply, the expression on his dark face hidden by his veil of scraggly hair. But Dumbledore seemed to take his silence as an affirmative. After a slight pause, he continued. "Tomorrow we will all return home, Giants, Faculty, Wizards, and Students, who are most definitely out-of-bounds." Hermione gave a slight titter, but everyone else remained silent, angry and confused, lost in their own tiny worlds. "I believe this evacuation will solve your problem, Anan," Dumbledore said quietly, meeting the gaze of the desert tribesman. "Once we are out of the area, Voldemort will have no reason to stay. He will trouble you no more." 

Posthumous's face broke into a huge smile. "Then we ride tonight," he said to the horsemen. Anan's face darkened, but he nodded, bowing his head in resignation. 

"Where are you going?" Hermione blurted out before she could stop herself and then turned bright red when everyone in the campsite wheeled around to stare at her. 

Posthumous didn't miss a beat, "Carthage. Now. Tiberius docks in two days time." 

He abruptly stood up, brushing the sand off his robes. Anan followed suit, and with their Chieftain's lead, all seven horsemen rose. Without a backward glance the nine men stalked out of the ring of the campfire.

----

Romulus got up quickly, following the horsemen's trail out into the darkness. No one saw him go.

"What do you want?" Posthumous snarled when he reached the edge of the camp. The nine men were already saddling their horses for their long journey across the desert. 

Romulus bit his lip, and throwing all caution to the wind, he reached out a gripped the reins of Posthumous's insufferable mule. "Where do you think you're going?" he said quietly, trying to still the frantic beating of his heart. 

Posthumous gave a derisive laugh. "A place that's no concern to you." 

"Don't go," Romulus hissed between clenched teeth. "Please. You don't understand what will happen." 

"I think you could be the one accused of not understanding," Posthumous said slowly, his voice a mere hiss, swallowed quickly by the thin mountain air. 

"I understand more than you think," Romulus said quietly, flinching as Posthumous met his gaze. His clear green eyes were full of a fevered anger. 

"You really think you can stop me," Posthumous said to Romulus, a touch of amazement in his voice as he cocked his head to the side. "You think you know what I'm doing." 

"You're going to try to kill the Emperor," Romulus said between clenched teeth as Posthumous's weathered lips twisted into the semblance of a smile. "You said it yourself back at the campfire-- that he docked in Carthage in two days time." 

"There is a long road between mentioning that the Emperor Tiberius is docking in Carthage and planning to assassinate him," Posthumous said smoothly, the smile pasted on his face making his expression unreadable. 

"Not when your name is Posthumous," Romulus said quietly. He had done it. He had finally said the magic words. Posthumous's closed expression gave way to one of pure rage, as the sides of his lips twisted up into something halfway between a grimace and a growl. A feral sound issued from his lips, and Romulus instinctively took a step backwards as he watched the other man's lined hands clench into tight fists. "Posthumous Agrippa," Romulus began, shaking his head in utter disbelief. "Son of the Roman admiral General Marcus Agrippa and Julia, the daughter of Caesar Augstus."

Romulus watched as the other man spat in the dust, "Much good that ever got me," he sneered bitterly. 

"You were the heir to Caesar Augustus's Empire," Romulus said quietly. "Then you got thrown out of Rome by Tiberius, leaving him free to take the throne. He alleged you raped his son's wife." 

"I was framed," Posthumous snarled. "I never touched her." The silence hung in the air for a moment before the former prince's sneer ripped it to shreds. "Well, aren't you going to finish my wonderful biography?" he snapped bitterly. 

"That's where it ends," Romulus said quietly, trying to avoid the other man's burning gaze. "You drop out of the history books completely." 

"Let me enlighten you, then," Posthumous sneered, pulling Livia's bridle from Romulus's hand. The raw leather snapped across his palm, biting into his soft flesh like a whip. "Tiberius tried to have me executed, but the Senate refused to let him. So instead, they had me exiled, but the old pervert wasn't content with my mere banishment. He organized seventeen assassination attempts before his spies ran my slave through with a lance and brought his heart to Tiberius. They said it was mine. I fled to the Numidian desert and wandered aimlessly through the Sahara until I was found by Anan and his tribe, who took me in and had pity on me when the rest of the world had turned its back. That was seven years ago, and only one thing has kept me alive through this exile into hell." 

"You want your revenge," Romulus said, shaking his head as the other man wrapped and unwrapped his mule's tether around his hand until it left red streaks on his sunburnt skin. "So you're going to Carthage to kill the emperor." 

"I plan to run him through with a lance," Posthumous said brightly, as if he was discussing the weather. 

"Why are they coming with you?" Romulus asked, gesturing around at the waiting horsemen. 

"The Himyarties are the best mercenary calvary in North Africa," Posthumous replied, his voice full of annoyance. "I'm paying them to help me get past the Emperor's Praetorian Guard. Besides," he smirked, holding up his palm and revealing a silvery scar that stretched from one side of his wrist the other. "In the few years I lived with Anan's tribe, I become one of them by a blood ceremony. The Himyarties are duty-bound by oath to protect their own." 

"You're going to get all of them killed," Romulus hissed quietly. 

Posthumous grinned slightly. "Do you think I care? As soon as I see Tiberius's body impaled on a stake, nothing matters." 

"Don't go," Romulus said again, reaching out a gripping Posthumous by the arm. 

"Fuck you!" the other man cried, twisting out of Romulus's grip. His lip curled up into an unmistakable snarl and he turned away, stalking into the night. 

Romulus almost followed, but he stopped himself, a great anguish bubbling up at the root of his soul. "Innoch!" 

The tall horseman he had met while talking with Harry wheeled his mare around, his face unreadable in the cool night. "Yes?" Innoch drew his mount forward, reining the mare into a halt when they rested a few feet from Romulus. 

"Don't go with Posthumous," Romulus said quietly. He felt that Innoch was the most rational of the whole lot of Himyaritic nomads. Even so, he knew that his chances of stopping the attack were slim 

"An oath is an oath," Innoch replied coldly, his face unreadable. "We are bound to Posthumous." 

"Look," Romulus began, trying to keep the desperate urgency from his voice. "In... in the future, I studied at Cardiff. It's a university in Wales... but none of that is important. I was an Ancient Studies major. I know my history." Innoch's expression remained stony and aloof, but he motioned his mount closer to Romulus. "There's a small blip in the textbooks. In 22 AD, the emperor Tiberius was attacked by a group of rebel Himyaritic horsemen when he docked in Carthage to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the Punic Wars. All of the rebel horsemen were slaughtered by Tiberius's praetorian guards, and in retaliation, Tiberius had every one of the Himyarties's settlements torched and their wives and children sold into slavery. As for the emperor, he remained unharmed. I think," Romulus took a deep breath. "I think that's what's going to happen here." 

Innoch said nothing for the longest time. "In the future, are people happy?" 

"What?" Romulus could not have been more taken aback. "Sometimes, yes." 

"Anan says that the causes of every event is incredibly complex," Innoch said quietly, twining his fingers in his mare's fair mane. "And therefore, a tragedy could give birth to a triumph." 

"Killing yourself is no triumph!" Romulus almost exploded. 

Instead of rising to the bait, Innoch smiled. "Who am I to change what has already been written? We die with honor." 

"You're insane," Romulus hissed, anger hitting him full in the face. "Think about your wife, children–" 

"If what you say is true," Innoch said quietly. "Then I don't have too long to wait before I see them again." Then he spun his mare on its heel, and cantered to where Posthumous, Anan, and the other horsemen were waiting. Together they turned away from the Giant's camp and rode out into history. Romulus watched them go, and in spite of his anger couldn't help but feel a small admiration for Innoch. Would he have had the courage to do the same?

"Lupin," wrenched from his thoughts, Romulus wheeled around. Directly behind him, was a short figure swathed from head to toe in black. 

__

It had been sixteen years. His memory, so faded and decrepit on every other front geld this day so perfectly intact that Romulus remembered every detail. The bar had been a musty brown, he had been wearing green, and the drink he had been consuming was a sickly sort of orange, smelling strongly of petrol.

"Who are you?" He took a giant step backwards, panic flooding through him. 

"Oh don't worry, Lupin. I'm a _friend_," the man said the word friend as if it was something nasty.

__

This only served to alarm Romulus more. "Get out of here," he hissed through clenched teeth. Whatever sixth sense he had was yelling danger with all of its might. 

__

"How old are you?" Romulus hadn't even realized that the man was there until he was right beside him. 

"Twenty," he replied, locking gazes with the stranger. His eyes were a funny metallic color, not gray like Romulus's own, but flat, dead, like cold tin. His black hair was slicked back behind his ears and on his patrician face spread a terrible smile. 

"Ah," the man inhaled, deeply, never blinking. "Just out of Hogwarts are we?" 

"I didn't go," Romulus replied flatly, watching the man with wary caution. "I'm a squib." 

"Are you really?" the man raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow. "That's... perfect."

"There's no need to get nasty," the man smirked. "I know when I'm not wanted. I just thought I may be able to interest you. I have a small proposition." 

__

"I don't want to hear it!" Romulus yelled angrily, trying to force his feet to move back towards the camp, away from this menacing figure. 

The man in black gave a deep chuckle. "I'm afraid you don't have a choice in that department. Can I interest you in this?" Reaching deep into the folds of his robes, he pulled out a small glass vial, filled almost to the brim with a murky red liquid Romulus knew all too well. The man was trying to peddle him dragon's blood. 

__

"Who are you?" Romulus said, feeling the sudden urge to back away. 

Sensing his prey's fear, the man's smile only widened. "Oh don't be afraid, my dear. I just want to give you a little present." From the depths of his robe, the man pulled out a tiny vial filled to the brim with a smoky red liquid. "Dragon's Blood. The most amazing liquid known to man. When drunk, it brings with it visions the likes of which beyond even your wildest dreams."

"I don't need that anymore," he said quietly, trying to wrench his eyes away from the tiny vial. But he couldn't, he was mesmerized by its smoky mysteries, and the promise of new life held within its depths. Then something else caught his eye. The hand holding the vial was not flesh and blood, but pure silver. "Pettigrew," Romulus said quietly, immediately recognizing Voldemort's minion from Harry's campfire story.   


Pettigrew made no reply, and when he next spoke, his voice was as smooth as syrup. "You know you want it." 

"I don't need it anymore," Romulus said firmly, trying to keep his voice from betraying the turmoil he felt at seeing that tiny bottle. A pounding began in his temples. 

"I think you do," Pettigrew hissed quietly. "I really think you do." 

"I--" Romulus began, but suddenly his voice failed him, as the pain in his temples grew and his mind reeled, lost in the swirling spell of the red liquid.

__

"Why are you giving this to me?" Romulus said quietly, taking the vial in his hand and gazing into the depths of the liquid. Tiny shapes lurked within it, figures blending in and out of each other together and then separate, arching through eternity. 

"I like the looks of you," the man had laughed, a long cackling snicker that would never stray far from Romulus's ears. "Consider this a present. It seems a shame to keep it all to myself."

Pettigrew's voice came to him as if through a mist, "There's only one thing you must do, and then all this can be yours," he moved his palm forward so that the dragon's blood was mere inches from Romulus's own face. 

Then, as if in a dream, Romulus heard himself replying. "What must I do?" 

"Kill Sirius Black." 

The mist snapped as Romulus backed away horrified. Pettigrew pulled down the hood of his robes and on his pudgy face there was the ghost of a smile. "It would be so easy. You never liked him anyway." 

"No..." 

__

"Thanks, I guess..." Romulus said quietly, slowly uncorking the top of the bottle. 

"You won't regret this," the stranger purred. "The Blood can cure... everything."

"You know you need it. It can cure... everything." Romulus turned and ran, the sound of Pettigrew's derisive laughter still ringing in his ears. 

----

"Even now, Wormtail lays the last snares that will bring Harry Potter into our web," Voldemort purred to Gabriel, running his long white fingers over the plush surface Pettigrew's armchair. "What do you think of my master plan, Lucifer?" 

"I fail to see the connection between Dragon's Blood and Harry Potter," Gabriel said stonily. 

"My Lord," Voldemort amended. "I fail to see the connection between Dragon's Blood and Harry Potter, my lord." Gabriel said nothing, staring at Voldemort apathetically from the depths of his hood. When he saw that Gabriel had no intention to make deference to him he let out a low chuckle. "You will learn. You are young, and I am amused by your stubbornness, so I will let it pass this once. Besides, you remind me of your mother. I think she would have been proud of you," Again Gabriel didn't reply, though he strongly doubted that his mother would show any pride twined beyond any escape in the web of Lord Voldemort. "As for your father," Voldemort's reptilian face twisted into a snarl. "The best thing I can say about him is that he was pureblooded." Voldemort spat onto Pettigrew's immaculate carpet. "Sejanus Cox was probably the most difficult man I'd ever met. That's why I killed him. Take care you don't follow in his footsteps." 

Voldemort's words had struck something deep inside of Gabriel. The Dark Lord had no clue that Sejanus Cox had never given Gabriel life. A small smile twisted itself onto Gabriel's lips in spite Voldemort's ravings, beyond his own apathetic shell, despite even the image that wouldn't seen to flee his memory. Moody's glass eye, fractured into 1000 different pieces, casting prismatic shadows onto the bits of blood, brain, and bone: all that remained of the greatest auror who had ever lived. Gabriel bit his lip, trying to force some reaction from his empty frame. Nothing came. Slowly, he turned his gaze back to Voldemort, who was staring at him, his red eyes narrowed to slits as he ran his blood-red tongue across his too-white lips. His father appeared to be deep in thought. His father, who would kill him without so much as a second thought when he outlived his usefulness. And when that time came, Gabriel would still have one card left in his hand. As long as Voldemort didn't know that he had a son, Gabriel could remain one step ahead of the Dark Lord. He wasn't about to drop the bomb on Voldemort until the time arrived when it could suit him best. 

"As for Dragon's Blood," Voldemort continued, a fevered glow overtaking his pallid face. "It has absolutely everything to so with Harry Potter. Dumbledore had built an almost impenetrable chain of protection around the boy, and now there is a weak link." 

"Really?" Gabriel said dryly, not even pretending to be interested. 

"There is no way to touch Potter when Sirius Black is around," Voldemort drawled as he drew his claw-like nails across Pettigrew's plush armchair. They rent clear through the fabric, leaving a trail of scars in the chair's silken arm. "He would sacrifice himself for the boy twenty times over, so Black must be eliminated. One of Black's closest friends, a man named Remus Lupin, has a twin brother. This man, Romulus Lupin, is a Dragon's Blood addict, and conveniently, he is here in Rome with Black and Potter. So we bribe Lupin with the Dragon's Blood, he kills Black and Potter is unprotected, as good as mine." Voldemort took a long hissing breath, closing his eyes in something approaching ecstasy. "Potter is the only one able to thwart my Oedipii charm, and once he is gone, no one will stand in my path. The blood of Muggles will run like a river and the Dark Arts will rise once more!" Voldemort's red eyes were gleaming with a fervid mania as he raised one of his corpse-like hands to his lips. "I can almost taste the blood, Lucifer. I can almost taste it..." 

----

"How did ve get here?" Everybody looked up at once, shocked that the silence after the horsemen's exit had finally been broken. It was Viktor Krum, speaking for the first time. 

"Ah, Viktor," Dumbledore smiled genially, running his ancient hands together. "I'm glad you asked." 

"Yes," Harry broke in, the questions racing around his mind finally crowding their way out his mouth. "Why are we here, instead of some random place in time? How can we understand Innoch and Posthumous when we don't speak any Latin? How--" 

Dumbledore held up a hand to silence him. "It's all in the Responder," he said broadly, gesturing at the silvery tube lying at his feet. The firelight played twisting patterns across its silvery surface, winding in and out, through and between, spiraling off into infinity. "I often wonder if Ivan Greyvilliach had any idea what he was creating when he sat in his tiny St. Petersburg lab, trying to craft an object that would rip through the fabric of time. The Responders are sentient, you know," he said abruptly. 

"They're what?" Ron asked, pushing a lock of red hair out of his eyes to get a better look at the shimmering tube. 

"Aware," Dumbledore replied, gazing at the Responder in what could only be deemed respect. "They're conscious, just as intelligent as you or me, if not more so. You can spell a Responder to go back or forward to a certain time, which is what happened with the one you found, Harry, or they can simply be set on random." 

"What happens then?" Hermione's eyes were wide; she was genuinely interested in Dumbledore's lecture. 

"Then?" Dumbledore's blue eyes gave a mischievous twinkle. "The Responder sends you off wherever it thinks you will do the most good. It has all of history to choose from."

"But what about the language?" Harry began, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. 

"The Responder modifies your memory, making you fluent in whatever the dominant language of the time is. It is a most convenient charm of Grevyilliach's own invention. Right now, Harry, we are all speaking classical Latin, and if someone appeared talking in modern-day English it would seem for all the world to be complete gibberish." 

"I think," Remus began, clearing his throat nervously. "That we should all go to bed." Harry had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn't fatigue that made him reach this conclusion, but the Asian woman leaning on his shoulder. 

"A most excellent suggestion, Remus," Dumbledore said pleasantly, clapping his hands together. "I say we turn in, a good night's sleep will do us all good. We can sort out this mess in the morning." 

Hagrid hiccuped his support and the meeting began to disperse. Harry was about to slip away to where he could think in peace when a hand caught his arm. It was Hermione. "Harry," she hissed, her brown eyes full of worry. "I hope you're not planning to do anything about You-Know-Who, it's horribly dangerous!" 

"Hermione, I know," he growled between clenched teeth. She didn't think she had ever seen him so angry. "Sirius made that quite clear." 

"Good," she breathed a sigh of relief and ventured a small smile. 

He didn't return it. "I don't think I could live with myself if I let Voldemort rise when I could have stopped him," he said angrily. "But then again, I'm precious Harry Potter, aren't I? Heaven forbid anything happen to me." Jerking out of her grasp, he spun on his heel and stalked away into the night. Watching his retreating back, she felt a sudden emptiness invade her chest, a hollow kind of pain. But, she did not attempt to follow. 

"Her-my-oh-ninny." 

Slowly, Hermione turned around. It was Viktor. In spite of Harry, despite Voldemort, beyond even her own doubts in herself, she smiled. "Viktor." 

He gave her a level sort of grin. "Professor Krum." 

"No," Hermione shook her head. "Viktor." A slight pause reigned. "You came after me," she said matter-of-factly. 

"I..." he began looking somewhat embarrassed. "I'm still owed a debt." 

"A debt?" Hermione raised an eyebrow incredulously, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in her voice. 

"Yes," Viktor began, more sure of himself now. "You still owe me something." 

"And what is that, Professor Krum?" Hermione smirked, her hands on her hips. 

"This." And then he kissed her. 

There in his arms, Hermione could feel herself smile. Maybe it would be all right after all. 

----

"Master." The young man inclined his head, feeling a sense of incredible fear and complete awe wash over him as the Dark Lord's hand brushed against his shoulder. 

"What is this?" Voldemort's voice sneered from above him. "Who brought me this worthless piece of filth?" 

"I brought myself, Lord," the young man continued, his voice trembling slightly. "I wish to enter your service." 

"And what makes you think I want you in my service, boy?" Voldemort sneered, his red eyes narrowing. 

"I..." the man's mouth went dry. "I don't know, my lord." 

"You don't know?" Voldemort shrieked, his high pitched voice reaching the stratosphere, but never straying far from the fearful beatings of the young man's heart. "How dare you tell me that you don't know!" 

"I-- I'm sorry, milord," the man bowed, feeling his fear rush through his veins like a wild animal on the rampage. 

"Sorry isn't good enough," the Dark Lord hissed through clenched teeth as he drew the man closer to him. "You must pay." 

"Pay with what, my lord?" the man asked nervously. 

"Your soul," Voldemort's smile widened as he watching the dumbstruck look on the man's face turn into one of terror. "I want your soul. But a soul can only be taken willingly. Will you give yours to me?" 

"To you, my lord?" the man stumbled nervously on his words. 

Voldemort bent forward, his white lips twisted into a palsied grin. "To me." 

"Yes," the man whispered, caught between utter despair and absolute terror. It was only one word, one single syllable, barely audible, but it would forever change his life. 

Suddenly, without a sound, Voldemort gripped the man's bare arm and pressed it against his own flesh. Almost at once, a shooting pain erupted in the man's arm, melting away his skin, bone, soul-- ripping at it until he was bare and naked, the pain rifling though him to his utter center, scarring his core. It whipped at his heart until it shredded to shapeless mush and simply faded away, leaving him hollow: a shell.

As suddenly as it began, it was over. Voldemort pulled his hand away as the young man gazed at his burning forearm, knowing what he would find there. 

The dark mark glared up at him. The scull and snake, locked against his flesh for eternity, was laughing. Voldemort said nothing. His brand needed no explanation. 

"What's your name, boy?" Lord Voldemort hissed suddenly, tossing the young man away like dross.

"Severus Snape," the man whispered, his eyes wide with terror as his arm still throbbed with indescribable pain. 

"Not anymore it isn't," Lord Voldemort hissed. "From now on, you're only..." he gave a soft chuckle, relishing the moment, "...Mine."

Snape opened his eyes, the dank cell materialized around him, but his imprisonment did not really matter anymore. He was trapped in the jail of memory. A hell of his own making. 

And this time, there was no way out. 

"Master." The young man inclined his head, feeling a sense of incredible fear and complete awe wash over him as the Dark Lord's hand brushed against his shoulder...

__

----

Lucius Malfoy was royally pissed. He had discovered far worse than any self-righteous auror of Dumbledore's. 

Paperwork. 

His frown deepening with every new document, Malfoy felt his frustration grow as he thumbed through the never-ending pile of Ministry form. Staring at the millions of slips of paper on everything from the density of wand cores to the migration patterns of yellow-bellied hinkypunks, a sudden thought crossed Malfoy's mind. No wonder Voldemort was winning the war. His resistance was utterly incompetent. Malfoy turned over one of the nearest forms and glanced at yet another document. It was a report on hippogriff mating rituals, complete with unnecessary moving photographs. 

Giving a roar of disgust, Malfoy tossed the entire pile of documents into his grate fire, images of fornicating fowl frolicking through his brain as they went up in smoke. Malfoy shuddered. No wonder Cornelius Fudge had been uptight all of the time. In spite of his innate evil-ness, he felt a twinge of pity for the old man. 

Malfoy was about to sink back into his office chair and nurse his scarred psyche with a packet of cigarettes when a raven flew in through the open window. It gave an evil squawk in greeting. Normally, Malfoy would have welcomed the raven and the message it was undoubtedly carrying. But, the images of birds engaging in acts that were illegal in 34 countries, not to mention under his own roof, still frolicked foppishly through his mind. Therefore, his enthusiasm at seeing the raven was a few shades pale of lackluster. He gave it one suspicious stare as it dropped a piece of parchment on his desk, ready to call "Rape!" if the raven put one claw out of line. After the hippogriff report, Malfoy never wanted to see another paper in his life. Nevertheless, he reached forward and reluctantly folded the letter open. 

Lucius, my slippery friend--

It was from Voldemort. Lucius rolled his eyes; he despised the Dark Lord's nickname for him. Not only was he most definitely not a friend of Voldemort's but the adjective "slippery" put him in mind of an eel or a cockroach or something equally vile. "Sneaky" or even "sexy" would have been much more applicable and appreciated. 

Oedipii charm is complete. 

Voldemort was talking about his ridiculous Oedipii charm. Oedipii was an ancient dark spell that would render him essentially immortal, unable to be killed by anyone except a blood relative. What the old man failed to see what that his enemies had a fate in store for him that was far worse than death. 

Cox has returned to the fold. 

This honestly surprised Lucius, who did not like the idea of being taken unawares by anything. He had honestly expected the young reporter to go whining off to Dumbledore, then sulk around a bit and write scathing editorials against Voldemort with horribly bad grammar. The last thing he expected was for Cox to cross enemy lines. 

Going to Rome. Wormtail will break down the last barrier to the Potter boy. 

Lucius rolled his eyes in annoyance. The Potter boy. It was always the Potter boy. The stubborn little child who just would not _die_. If it was up to Lucius, he would just arrange a tragically terrible and quite regrettable accident. He would get Draco to "accidentally" drop his trunk on Potter's head or something of the sort, but Voldemort insisted on very long and elaborate schemes to bring about Potter's demise. Schemes that always seemed to backfire horribly. 

The Slytherin team could not even beat the damn boy at Quidditch. 

Lucius nervously lit a cigarette and took a quick drag before smashing the tip down on the word "Potter" in Voldemort's letter. He had a score to settle with that impudent child. Lucius felt slightly better when the tip of his cigarette burned through the paper, obliterating Harry's last name. 

I am watching you.

--Voldemort

Lucius rolled his eyes. The Dark Lord was so horribly cliché it made him want to retch. Staring at the letter, he lit another cigarette and puffed moodily at it. 

The note, terse and tacky as it was, gave him a lot to think on. If, for some reason unbeknownst to Lucius, Voldemort's scheme to get hold of the Potter boy actually succeeded, his grip on power would be cemented. Once again, Lucius would find himself forced to submit to Voldemort's domination, placing himself under the yoke of the mudblood snake-eyed fool just as he had been trapped twelve years before. God had given him another chance when that insufferable Harry Potter had defeated Voldemort a little over a decade ago. It was all so clear now. He was destined to lead the dark arts and he's be damned if some half-blood two-bit mudblood calling himself Voldemort would snatch the crown away. Lucius just wondered why it had taken him 15 years to act on his lifelong ambitions. He would not let power slip through his fingertips once more. 

Energized, Malfoy pulled open his desk drawer, gazing fondly at the shiny silver tube nestled there. Malfoy's Greyvillian Responder had been stolen from a tiny shop in Druymenivitch Way, Moscow's equivalent of Knockturn Alley. Still smirking in a self-satisfied fashion, he raised his wand and muttered the words that would program the Responder to take him 2000 years into the past. Malfoy took one last look around his office. The scattered paperwork, roaring fire, and hardwood desk already seemed so far away. 

A rare burst of humor struck him and he grabbed the nearest Ministry form, hastily scrawling a message onto the back. Then without further ado, he gripped the responder and disappeared. 

The next morning, nearly eight hours later, his secretary would enter Malfoy's office and find it utterly deserted. In fact, the only clue to the Minister's whereabouts was a tiny scrap of parchment lying on his desk. On it were scrawled five words in the Minister's own handwriting: _All roads lead to Rome._

----

"Tell me about your brother." 

"What?" Remus blinked abruptly, looking up at Vix. She was lying with her head on his chest, playing absently with the ties of his robe. 

"Tell me about your brother," Vix repeated, sitting up slightly so that she could look him in the eye. 

"No, I heard you the first time," he began. "I was just surprised." 

"Why?" she rolled off him and sat up, her onyx hair glowing in the dying firelight. 

He gripped at the mountain's turf and pulled himself up beside her, "Have you asked Sirius about him?" 

Vix gave a small smile. "He let out a string of curses that I will most definitely not repeat." Remus laughed as she smirked impishly at him. "Honestly, all Sirius said is that he could never forgive Romulus for what he did to you." 

The smile instantly dropped off Remus's face as he looked down at the ground, tracing the blades of grass one by one with his fingertips. "It's not a nice story," he said quietly, refusing to meet her gaze. 

Her reply was equally quiet. "Neither was Orien." 

"All right," Remus sighed, defeated. "His name is Romulus," he began, groping for a foothold. "You already knew that. He's a squib--" 

"A what?" Vix interrupted him. 

"A squib," he repeated. "A person born into a wizarding family who is incapable of doing any magic. It's looked on as a source of great shame." 

"Why?" Vix's face showed genuine confusion as Remus felt himself falter. 

"What do you mean why?" 

"There's nothing wrong with not being able to do magic," she said forcefully, giving him a defiant glare. 

"Well, you wouldn't understand. You're a muggle," he said somewhat condescendingly. 

"And you have a great big stick up your ass," she said pleasantly. When Remus opened his mouth to protest, she cut him off. "You wizards are so damn arrogant. None of you seem to understand that in the grand scheme of things, magic isn't really important. It seems like more of a curse to me than anything to be proud of." 

"What?" Remus spluttered indignantly. 

"Wizards still misuse their power. Wizards still commit suicide. Wizards still die alone," Vix reached forwards to brush her hand against the crescent-shaped scar on Remus's abdomen. "Wizards still hate other wizards." Remus didn't say a word, his vocal cords tied in knots as she drew herself closer towards him. "As long as we're human, it doesn't matter if we can make wands light up whenever we want." She paused slightly, running her fingers across his chest. Slowly, she drew herself close to him until he could hear her heart beat alongside his own, feel her body taut against his chest, and hear her shallow breaths in his ear. When she began to whisper, a tingle spiraled up his spine and out into the stars above. "As long as we're human, we'll be black and white, hot and cold, up and down, good and evil, all that the same time. That's what makes us so incredibly fucked up and yet, so amazingly beautiful." 

"You truly believe that?" he asked breathlessly as her hands tightened around his waist, 

She answered him in a roundabout way. "My brother killed at least twenty people without any remorse, but he loved chocolate ice cream and had to sleep with a nightlight. He was afraid of the dark." 

"I love you," he whispered, a sense of amazement-- wholeness, completely filling him until he felt like his cup had truly runneth over. For the first time since that fateful Halloween 1981, fifteen years before, Remus honestly felt, pressed up against Vix's bony body, that he belonged. Vix made no reply, humming a nonsense tune softly to herself. Her fingers flickered across his stomach like butterflies, flitting nonsense patterns across his skin until they fell and lingered just left of his bellybutton, tracing the long crescent-shaped scar that lay there. 

Taking a breath, Remus forced himself to remember what he had tried so long to forget. "We were five. My father was a scientist for the Department of Magical Creatures, and he was collecting data on flobberworms in their natural habitat. So we lived by a big forest in the Snowdon Mountains of Wales." 

"So that's why you talk so funny," Vix joked gently, drawing him down into the grass beside her. 

He forced a smile before continuing. "Romulus and I were four. We were playing outside just after nightfall. We head a noise in the bushes..." 

A rustle of leaves. 

A flash of yellow eyes. 

"Romulus was several minutes older, so he told me I had to go see what it was." 

What are you, chicken? 

No! I--

"So I did." He paused slightly, biting his lip. "It was a wolf." 

Snapping jaws and a savage growl were its only greeting as it tore out the bush by its roots, showering him with clumps of earth. He crouched low, folding his hands over his head, trying to block out the beast's bloodthirsty howl. 

"We ran, but it chased after us. Romulus was a great deal ahead of me because I had gone to see what it was." 

His tiny feet hit the ground, a panicked pitter, pounding a frantic rhythm he would hear the echoes of for the rest of his life. He was frantic, his breath rasping, reaching, retching, lost, and groping for any handhold, foothold, any lifeline at all. The beast remained a mere pace behind. 

"We eventually reached out cottage, Romulus before me. He... he ran inside and bolted the screen door." 

Let me in!

Chicken!

Let me in!

Go play with the wolf now. I'm sick of you. 

"It bit me. By the time my father came with his wand, it was too late. Romulus stood and watched the whole thing through the screen door. He didn't cry for help once." Vix said nothing, running her fingers over his crescent scar, tracing its contours. "They rushed me to St. Mungo's hospital, but the damage was already done. It's funny, being a... werewolf didn't used to be a source of shame among wizards. It was common even. Godric Gryffindor himself was a werewolf. But, times change, and so do people. Nowadays, wizards are paranoid. Lycanthropy can be transmitted by blood as well as the traditional bites, so many people refuse to have anything to do with us, afraid that one day we will accidentally cut ourselves and they too will be doomed." He gave a bitter laugh before continuing the story. "My parents never quite got over the stigma of having a monster for a son, and when Romulus turned out to be a squib, both of them were inconsolable. I think he always resented me because I could do magic. But there was nothing we could do. I went to Hogwarts, Romulus to the Muggle University. He studied Ancient History, I believe, and was just about to graduate when he got mixed up in Dragon's Blood. It's the wizard's heroin, a powerful narcotic." Remus bit his lip. "The same night Harry's parents were killed, he disappeared off the face of the earth, and I didn't see him for fourteen years, until he showed up on my doorstep last Tuesday." 

"I'm sorry," Vix whispered in his ear, gripping his hand tightly. "I'm so sorry." 

He didn't reply, turning his eyes to the never-ending web of stars, and then beyond, to their mother. Luna, Diana, Artemis-- the great silver orb that had come to be the governing force in his life, the one thing that set him so far apart from the rest of humanity, and somehow, despite it all, made him whole. The moon as its never-constant tides had brought him Sirius, Peter, James, Harry, Vix. Himself. That was enough. 

Without his curse, his gift, where would he be? Who would he be? Where did he end and the wolf take over? Or was there even such a clear definition? Man--wolf--wolf-- man, the lines became blurred into non-existence, leaving him just one single entity. 

Who was he? 

Remus Lupin. But what was in a name after all? 

He was black and white. Hot and Cold. Up and Down. Good and Evil. Human.

And for his life to come, he would not have it otherwise. 

----

Harry lay awake, his heart pounding in his ears. 

Despite Sirius and Hermione's warnings, deep inside, Harry knew that it all depended on him. If Dumbledore was right and Voldemort had performed the Oedipii Charm, then there was only one person who could ever hope to defeat him: Harry. Ever since that fateful summer night in the deserted graveyard, Harry's blood had been running through Voldemort's resurrected veins. 

And if he didn't act, who knew how many innocent lives would be needlessly lost before the insanity finally ceased. 

Harry knew now why he had had the dreams of King Arthur. Arthur had been at a crossroads, a choice of whether to burn his wife or let her live, a decision between what was good and what was simple. And Arthur, King of Britain, had taken the easy road out. 

It was so painfully effortless just to walk away, ignore Lord Voldemort and go live with Sirius, graduate from Hogwarts, play Quidditch for England. It was so easy to just let go. 

But every morning, Harry had to be able to face himself in the mirror, and he knew that if he gave up, every day he would see the shadow of a murdered boy, whose haunted eyes begged him for some sort of vengeance, some sort of justification for his pointless death. Harry could not live with the ghost of Cedric Diggory. 

How many more Cedrics would have to die before the madness would end? How many innocent lives would be lost if Harry didn't act? 

Slowly, a haphazard plan forming itself in his head, Harry got to his feet, walking across the campsite to where he had last seen his old Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. 

He didn't have long to look. Remus Lupin was sprawled across the grass, the Asian woman, Vix, entwined in his embrace. Both were fast asleep, and Harry noted that the slightest of smiles was spread across his former teacher's face. 

Harry bit his lip. From now on, it was the point of no return. 

Silently, he reached into the depths of his robe and pulled out Sirius's penknife. Ever so gently, he picked up Remus's palm, removing it from the curve of Vix's cheek. His teacher gave a grunt and rolled over, knocking his head against Harry's knee. With a start, his eyes opened. Harry remained frozen in shock as Lupin looked up, his gray eyes flicking from his own hand to Harry to the knife and then back again. Harry saw the cogs turn in his head, the realization dawn onto his face, and then the fear creep across his features. "Harry" he began quietly, warning in his tone. 

Harry said nothing, dropping Sirius's penknife to the ground and reaching into his robes for his wand. 

"Harry," Lupin said slowly, as if he was speaking to a very small child. "You're doing this to get past the Innocintus Wards, aren't you? It's not worth it. You don't want this." 

"It's not my choice," Harry said between clenched teeth. 

"Why don't you let me go and walk back to bed," Remus said calmly. "We'll both forget this ever happened--" 

"I'm so sorry," Harry whispered, pulling his wand out of his sleeve. "_Stupefy_!" 

Remus fell back onto the grass, his gray eyes vacant and his moth slightly ajar. Fingers trembling, Harry placed his wand back into his robes and picked Sirius's penknife up off of the grass. The early morning dew wet his palms as if nature itself was crying. Silently, he dug Sirius's into Lupin's skin. His teacher did not move. Giving a sigh of relief, Harry squeezed the cut so that a line of red blood welled to the surface. 

Dumbledore's words echoed in his mind, "Only a creature of dark origins can even hope to enter the fortress." Harry was at a crossroads between what was easy and what was good. Biting his lip, he stepped over the threshold. He dug the knife into his own palm and then, before he could change his mind, pressed his hand against Lupin's. Their blood intermingled. Mixed. 

Harry stood up, feeling slightly woozy. Before his eyes, the jagged slash on his hand, changed shape, healing into a small crescent shaped scar. He'd give Lord Voldemort a creature of dark origins. 

Harry dropped the penknife into the grass, a gaping pit forming at the bottom of his throat, a hole that threatened to well up with tears. He wanted to say good-bye to Sirius, Ron, Hermione, but he couldn't even make himself turn around. It was too painful. The only way for him now was forward. 

"_Ubi es Lord Voldemort_?" Harry whispered, watching as the Locates Charm sent a long thing trail of light spiraling away from the Giants's camp, through the foothills, and into the desert. 

Harry Potter, boy, man, or something else entirely, took the first step towards his destiny. 

----

Romulus sat and watched Harry go, a feeling of incredibly foreboding forming in his chest. But he couldn't bring himself to raise the alarm. 

James Potter's boy had his right to become a man. 

He sat and watched Harry walk, followed the trail of the Locates charm until he was a tiny speck in the night, and then gone, swallowed whole by the impenetrable blackness. 

Romulus then turned his gaze back to camp, where the fire was still burning, its tantalizing flames reminding him so much a liquid he wanted desperately to forget. 

He sat there for a long time, until the sun came up and the flames died down into ashes. 

__

A/N-- Thanks to everyone that reviewed the last one, and also those who plan on (hint hint :O) ) reviewing this installment. A special thanks to Rowena and CLS, who beta-ed this chapter, I couldn't have done it without either of them. I'll blindly solicit here for a moment, if an of you haven't read their works, do. Now. You don't know what you're missing :O). 


	11. Out of Ashes

Viktor Krum became the driving force behind the new wizarding world, instituting ground breaking reforms to raise it truly out of the ashes __

DISCLAIMER- I own it all. Especially Harry Potter.

For this last installment, I'd like to thank all of you for the tremendous support I've gotten on this fic, from those of you that have read and reviewed and those that have simply enjoyed. Thank you all. For those of you wondering what I'll do next, well… first I have to get through exams :O). Maybe a Sirius fic, who knows. A special thanks to my two beta readers, CLS and Rowena Alana, I couldn't have done it without either of you. So without further ado…

PHOENIX ASCENDING XI-- OUT OF ASHES

The Innocintus Wards gleamed silver in the misty light of predawn. Harry's faithful Locates Charm, which had led him so far across the desert gave a slight puff of air and dissolved, fading away into the nothingness of night. Harry had never felt more alone in his life. 

Voldemort's fortress loomed several paces from where he stood. It's immense stone turrets spiraled up into the air, beyond any sight or comprehension. The Innocintus Wards clung to the fort like a misty aura, glinting silver and glittering in the rapidly fading moonlight. 

Harry felt an incredible hole lodge itself at the base of his throat. 

He had the sudden gut feeling that he was going to die. 

Mere steps from where he stood, a huge iron gate loomed. A fence that would take him only seconds to climb. But Harry's fear had paralyzed him. What if Lupin's blood didn't get him through the wards? What if being a werewolf wasn't enough? What if he had written away his life for nothing? 

Taking a deep steadying breath, he moved his fingers through the ward and placed his hand on the wrought iron gate. His fingers tingled slightly as they passed through the mist, but nothing else happened. No lightning bolts burst straight out of heaven ready to strike him down as he stood. Neither did any rampaging armies of bloodthirsty Death eaters magically materialize.

Biting his lip, Harry stepped through the wards. 

A tingle ran up his spine, and then out through his scull, spiraling up through the clouds and into infinity. All in all, it wasn't that bad of a feeling. In spite of himself, Harry smiled. He had done it. He was inside of Voldemort's supposedly impenetrable fortress. All Harry had to do was figure out what he was going to do next… 

"Who goes there?" Harry drew himself into the shadows of the fortress as a black cloaked guard appeared on the other side of the gate. "_Lumos_!" The guard's shadowy figure was illuminated by a ball of wand light. 

"_Stupefy_!" Harry hissed, watching with satisfaction as a blast of purple light zipped through the bars of the fence, hitting the guard straight between his temples. He fell like a rock, unconscious before he even hit the ground. 

It took Harry mere seconds to climb the iron gate. He landed next to the guard with a soft crunch. Cautiously he glanced around to see if anyone heard him. 

The fortress was deserted. 

Grinning at his good fortune Harry began to unclasp the guard's robe. He needed a disguise. Harry couldn't stop grinning as he pulled it over his Hogwarts uniform. 

This was all too easy. 

----

Lucius Malfoy landed hard on the smooth gray cobblestones of Voldemort's fortress. With a lurch, his knees gave out from under him and he sprawled across the floor, his face pressed flush against the cold rock. Slowly, his world gelled into something whole; the dancing shapes and colors becoming clearly defined fortress walls. Lithe as a cat, Malfoy was on his feet, sniffing the air as he wheeled down the nearest corridor. Rounding the nearest corner, Malfoy ran smack dab into a Death Eater who had been scurrying around the bend. 

"God dammit!" Malfoy bellowed as his designer dress robes ripped under the Death Eater's boot. "Fool!" Grey eyes flashing, Malfoy hit Voldemort's minion across the lip, digging his signet ring into the servant's jaw. 

The man did not cry out, his own eyes radiating almost as much fury as Malfoy's from underneath his hood. Coolly the Death Eater reached up and gripped his chin, trying to staunch the bleeding with his bare fingers. "You're not authorized to be here," the man said stoically, his words slurred somewhat from his swelling jaw. 

"I need no authorization," Malfoy hissed, his gelled blonde hair falling into his eyes. "I am beyond petty laws." 

"You can tell that to Lord Voldemort," the Death Eater said, not the least bit unnerved by Malfoy's outburst. "I am going to have to raise the alarm." 

"Raise the alarm," Malfoy whispered, reaching out and gripping the wounded man by the collar of his robes. "Raise it for all I care. Then see what your master thinks of your incompetence for not noticing his most powerful supporter. See what punishments are dolled out because you failed to recognizing Lucius Malfoy!" He let go of the man who stumbled backward a few paces, blood running freely down his neck. "I am Lucius Malfoy!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, throwing his arms out as if trying to stretch beyond the confines of the corridor and encompass the world itself. "I am Lucius Malfoy, and I have arrived!" 

The Death Eater said nothing; his head slightly bowed in reverence though his frame radiated utter contempt. 

"Learn to live with me, slave," Malfoy said, gripping the Death Eater by the chin. "Or I will make life very miserable for you in the days to come." Gripping the Death Eater's hood he pulled it back so he could stare the imbecile straight in the eye. "Do you understand--" 

Malfoy broke off, his voice paralyzed by complete and utter shock. He dropped the Death Eater, who lost his balance and fell to his knees, hands wildly scanning the floor for his glasses, which had slipped off his nose in the fall. Suavely, Malfoy reached down and plucked them off the cobblestones, twirling them between his perfectly manicured fingers. The Death Eater turned to look at Lucius, who met his horrified green eyes with a satisfied smirk. "Oh, Mr. Potter," he purred. "You're making it _easy_." 

----

Romulus awoke by the giant's campfire, his head cradled in his arms. His body racked with chills, though not from any cold. 

He ached on the inside; his body crying out for the one thing he must deny it. He was betrayed by his own person, immobilized by the never-ending lust for Dragon's Blood.

He opened his eyes, shutting them tightly as the mountains swam through his vision, multiplying and then curving away into nothingness. The all too familiar pounding began at his temples. 

He tried to pull himself to his feet but slipped, falling down onto the grass. The early morning dew clung to his cheeks like artificial tears. 

For no other reason than to inflict pain on something, he bit his tongue so hard that it bled. The blood turned acrid in his mouth and he swallowed hard, nearly retching as he choked on his own fluid. 

Rolling over, Romulus's hand hit something hard and cold. 

It was a gun. Wrapped around the barrel was a tiny slip of parchment. Without even touching the weapon, Romulus instinctively knew it was from Pettigrew. His fingers were trembling so much that it took him several tries to unwrap the note from the gun's muzzle. The words swam in and out of focus, their letters turning into squiggling lines that perplexed and escaped Romulus's agonized mind. "Stop!" he cried out without thinking. But the letters did not obey. Frustration at his own incapacity filled Romulus and he tossed the note away. 

Slowly, he reached for the gun and lifted it to one of his throbbing temples. He could end it all now. 

Then, just as his finger was tightening on the trigger, his eyes caught a glint of glass. Wrapped in Pettigrew's indecipherable letter was a bottle of mercy. 

The gun slipped through his limp hand. Fingers fumbling, he groped at the Dragon's Blood. He uncorked the top and slipped away into infinity. 

----

Dumbledore's clear blue eyes gleamed with worry as he held out the Greyvillian Responder, surveying the haphazard crowd of giants and wizards surrounding him. "We must go as soon as we are joined by the others…" 

Sirius cast a sideways glance at Romulus, for once the man was smiling, a look of euphoric pleasure on his face. Sirius's eyes narrowed in suspicion as Moony's twin gave him an euphoric grin. 

"Dumbledore! I need to speak to--" the crowd parted as Remus ran through it, his robes askew and a look of absolute horror on his face. 

"What is it, Remus?" Dumbldore took a step towards the shaken professor.

Remus opened his mouth once. "It's Harry-- Sirius, I tried to stop him. I--"

"What?" The horror that filled Sirius was beyond any comprehension. Slowly, painfully, a fourteen-year-old scene formed in his mind. Smoke rose from the remains of a cozy little cottage. The gray mist spiraled up into the cool night air, encircling the smoldering rubble that had once been walls, snaking around the upturned furniture, and hovering about a the body of a man lying in the grass. His glasses were askew, and his ashen face looked as if it was simply dreaming. Sirius had failed the Potter's once. He couldn't let it happen again. He owed it to Harry. 

He owed it to James. 

"He…" Remus's mouth opened and closed like a fish when he saw the look of horror on Sirius's face. "Harry left the camp; he's gone after Voldemort. He knocked me out when I discovered him and…" Lupin's voice failed him, so he simply held up his hand. The long jagged gash running across his palm spoke for itself. 

Sirius gave a cry like a wounded wolf, he attempted to push his way through and out of the crowd, but a pair of strong hands held him still. "No yeh don't," Hagrid growled, his whiskers tickling Sirius's forehead. "Yeh no good to 'Arry liok that."

"Let me go!" Sirius spat, but his struggles against the half-giant were futile. 

"Remus, Hagrid. Take him out of here." Dumbledore said, offering the giant and the werewolf his Greyvillian tube. "We'll follow on the next responder."

Before Sirius could protest, Hagrid had taken the tube and they were falling through a blur of color and sounds. Within a matter of seconds, the three men landed on the wet grass of the Hogwarts lawn, a matter of meters from Hagrid's cabin. 

"Damn you!" Sirius yelled as soon as he had gotten his mouth out of the grass. "Harry's back there, don't you see--"

"If the giants don' leave now, they never will," Hagrid said gruffly. "I love 'Arry liok my own son. But its one life against 'undreds. You 'ave to understand, Sirius. You 'ave to see." 

All Sirius could manage was a strangled cry. "James…"

"Is dead!" Remus grabbed him roughly about the shoulders, shaking him hard. "Do you think James would like to see you like this? Sirius, for god's sake, pull yourself together! You're wallowing in your own self pity…" the quietly he added. "This isn't about Harry at all." 

"He's going to die back there!" Sirius wrenched himself from Remus's grip, his voice trembling with anger. "Dumbledore is just leaving him to die in the past!" 

A sad smile had fitted itself upon Remus's face. "He's the Boy Who Lived." 

"The Boy Who Lived…" Sirius said quietly, biting his lip. Even if he tried, he couldn't have kept the bitter malice from his voice. "Lived, while James died." 

"This isn't about Harry at all," Remus repeated, shaking his head slowly. "It's James." 

Sirius didn't say a word. Even if he had trusted his voice not to betray his turmoil, he wouldn't have been able to find any words to counter Remus. So all he did was shrug, slowly and quietly, averting his eyes from Remus's furious gaze. 

"He's dead," Moony said quietly, before raising his voice to a yell. "God dammit, Sirius! He's dead!" 

Once again, Sirius shrugged, but there was a lump in his throat that wouldn't let him disavow the truth of Remus's words. "I… I told him to switch--" 

"Stop it!" Remus the calm-levelheaded peacemaking marauder was absolutely livid. Sirius had never seen him this upset before. "Stop all this goddam self pity! Wake up… it's over! James is dead!" 

"Oh?" Sirius spat angrily, leaping to his feet. "Spoken by a true master of self-love, eh?" 

"I'm not futilely trying to hold onto the past!" Remus yelled, kicking the Greyvillian responder across the lawn. 

"You're right!" Sirius threw up his hands, his fingers clenched together in anger. "But you didn't have to live through what I did. You think _you_ have it bad in you poor self-impoverished werewolf hell? You don't know hell, Remus. You don't have a clue about suffering! You didn't have to live thirteen years in a place where you relive your worst memories over and over and over…" his voice trembled slightly. "And you're there, wishing you could have done something better, wishing that somehow you can put it right. But you can't, because it's the past and you're trapped in a goddamn hellhole!" Sirius took a breath, his hands clenched in fury. "Don't talk to me about being fucked up! Don't talk to me until you've lived through Azkaban!" 

The silence was almost as biting as Sirius's tirade. Slowly, he drew a breath. "Do you know how many times I've had to watch myself convince Lily and James to change secret keepers, Remus? Can you even begin to imagine?" his voice rose to a fevered yell. Remus didn't answer, his wan features closed and aloof. 

Sirius's tone changed, until it was little more than a whisper, trembling with every word. "Harry can't die. I need… I need to set this one thing right." 

"Maybe," Hagrid ventured nervously, "'Arry will find 'is way out." 

Sirius jerked his head around bitterly, "And what if he doesn't?" 

"'Arry's a clever boy, smarter than I ever was," Hagrid said, trying to smile behind his black beard. "At least 'e's not wit' Professor Snape." 

"Where's Snape?" Sirius said, not really listening to what Hagrid was saying. His eyes were still focused on Remus. The expression on Moony's face was a mask of utter stoicism. 

"'Aven't yeh heard?" Hagrid was plainly shocked. "Snape went to Azkaban." 

Sirius stopped dead in his tracks. "Hagrid," he said quietly. "Do you still have my motorcycle?" 

----

"I do not like Green Eggs and Ham," Voldemort's shrill voice seemed especially surreal when it dictated couplets. "I will not eat it, Sam I am. I will not eat in a hat. I will not eat in on a mat..." Slowly, he turned over the newest find from Pettigrew's bookcase and gazed at it with slight disgust. "Strange taste these Muggles have in literature." 

Gabriel said nothing, chewing on his tongue as he stared blankly at the stone walls. 

"What?" Voldemort snapped, gazing at him intently. 

"What?" Gabriel blinked abruptly, meeting the Dark Lord's gaze. 

"Something is bothering you," Voldemort hissed. "And I want to know what it is." 

"Nothing is bothering me," Gabriel said quietly, his eyes never straying from Voldemort's reptilian slits. 

"Lord Voldemort knows all," the Dark Lord hissed. "Do not lie to me, boy." 

"What's wrong is that nothing is wrong," Gabriel said stiffly. "In the last twenty-four hours I've gone against everything I've believed for twenty-four years, and I couldn't care less." 

A small smile curved across Voldemort's lips, a smile that would have made the old Gabriel shiver or even retch. But the new Gabriel felt nothing, returning the grin with a blank stare of his own. Before the Dark Lord had a chance to reply, the door flew open. It was Lucius Malfoy, his slick blonde hair horribly askew and an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips like a limp sausage. In his grip was Harry Potter. 

Gabriel smiled. 

Harry felt a shiver go up his spine. 

----

Harry was the first to speak. "Gabriel?" his voice quavered slightly. Gabriel could sense Malfoy and Voldemort holding their breath. 

"You're a long way from home, Harry," Gabriel said simply, his smile widening at Harry's look of untapped horror. 

"You're.." the boy stumbled over his words, trying to wrench himself from Malfoy's grip. "You're being held prisoner. You're not with _him_…"

"Why would he hold me prisoner?" Gabriel said, his lids falling heavy over tired eyes. "I'm not anything special," and then with a touch of malice in his voice, he added. "I'm not Harry Potter." 

"You're trapped, Potter," Voldemort purred, getting out of Pettigrew's easy chair as he dropped _Green Eggs and Ham_ on the floor. It fell with a dissonant clatter. "What was began," he gave a slick dangerous smile. "Two thousand years from now will end tonight." 

"Kill me if you want," Harry said firmly, straightening as tall as Malfoy's stranglehold grip would allow. "There will be others who will resist you." 

"But no one will be able to defeat me," Voldemort hissed, gripping Harry by the chin. Gabriel saw him flinch, but the teenager didn't back down. "No one except you. And you're just an arrogant, foolish little boy." Voldemort said the last two words with such scorn that Gabriel saw Potter bite his lip. But when the Boy Who Lived spoke, his voice was even and steady. 

"You've underestimated me before," Harry said. 

"No," Voldemort sneered, gripping Harry's throat tighter. "No, I overestimated you. I expected you to stand and fight like a man in the graveyard. Instead you ran away… like a little boy. You fled from me, Potter, because you are a coward. Just like your father." 

"My father wasn't a coward," Harry said, but it was as if his cool had simply shattered and melted away. He had gone pure white and his lip was trembling as he spoke. 

Voldemort's catlike smile widened as he ran a red tongue over his palsied lips. "Oh my boy…" he gave a sinister chuckle. "There are more things in heaven and earth than your small view of the world allows." 

"What do you know about heaven?" Harry spat, a flush rising to his tan cheeks. 

All trace of emotion suddenly dropped of Voldemort's pure white face, his red eyes voids of untraceable emptiness. "And what do you know about hell, Harry?" 

Harry said nothing. He bit his lip so hard that a thin trickle of blood dripped down his chin. 

Reaching forward, Voldemort wiped the blood away with one slender skeletal finger. Harry flinched as the Dark Lord's hand passed over his flesh. "Surrender to your darker nature, Harry. It lurks in all of us. It lurks in you." 

"No," Harry said quietly, trying to back away. Malfoy held him still.

"Oh yes," Voldemort contradicted. "You killed Diggory, didn't you?" 

"You killed Diggory," Harry said, but Gabriel noticed his trembling hand. 

"How do you know I am not you…" Voldemort purred, running the tips of his bone white fingers over his wand before slipping it into his pocket. "How do you know that I am not just a mask you wear?" 

"I…" Harry shook his head slowly. "You're insane." 

"Or maybe it's you that's off your rocker," Voldemort hissed, placing his hand on Harry's chest, just above where his heart beat. "Maybe we're one in the same, Potter. Like a diamond, with many faces." 

"You're _evil_," Harry said forcefully, his flesh burning where Voldemort's hand lingered. 

"Pleasure and pain, Potter," Voldemort replied quietly, staring far beyond Harry, gazing at something no one else could see. "Where is one without the other?" 

Harry said nothing, a look of absolute horror on his face. "If it's any consolation, Harry," Voldemort said, "There wasn't a single day I didn't think about you." His voice abruptly changed tone as he waved a hand at Lucius Malfoy. "Take him away and kill him. It's time to shatter the diamond." 

"No." 

Gabriel was jerked out of his apathy as he spun around to stare at Malfoy in absolute shock. Voldemort's face had taken on a dangerous pallor. "What did you say, Malfoy?" 

"No," Malfoy replied, letting go of Harry so he sprawled across the floor wildly. "do not take orders from half-blood scum."

"What did you say?" Voldemort hissed, groping through his robes for his wand. 

"Looking for this?" Malfoy's voice was syrupy as he held up a tiny stick of wood. "I pilfered it during your wonderful chat with Potter here. Face it, Riddle, you're completely at my mercy." 

"I am at no man's mercy," Voldemort spat, rising from his chair in fury. "Least of all a foppish hypocritical--" 

"_Crucio_!" Malfoy shouted, his curse grazing past Voldemort's ear and hitting the wall behind him, rending an enormous hole in the plaster. "Next time, I won't miss, Muggle!" 

If this insult had any effect on Voldemort, his face showed no emotion. "The Oedipii Curse is complete. You can't kill me, Malfoy." 

"Oh I have no intention to," Malfoy sneered, twirling Voldemort's wand between his fingers. "I have enchanted this room with a reverse ward spell. As long as you live, you will not be able to leave its premises. Any other soul can come and go as they please. It would be an even greater punishment for you to be trapped here, watching as I resurrect dark magic to its former glory. You will watch as I become great and your name is slowly forgotten, until you become little more than a fairy tale to send snotty children to bed. You will sit here and rot," he proclaimed, before adding with a touch of sarcasm, "…_My lord_."

"Fool," Voldemort spat, gripping Pettigrew's bed so hard that his nails dig holes in the bed posts. 

But Malfoy did not have a chance to reply. At that moment, Potter made a wild dash across the room, diving for Pettigrew's mattress. Gabriel made a wild grab for his legs. He was rewarded when his hand tightened around Harry's shoe. The boy scrabbled wildly through his robes and Gabriel began to drag him off of the bed. Suddenly, Harry lashed out, driving a penknife into the soft skin of Gabriel's hand. Giving a cry of agony, Gabriel let go. The penknife slipped through Harry's fingers and skittered across the floor as he lunged onto Pettigrew's bed again. Harry scrabbled across the bed. At that instant, Gabriel saw what Potter was after. His heart gave a lurch in his chest. 

Apparently, Malfoy had put two and two together as well. "No! Stupid boy!" He yelled, grappling at Harry's shoes, dropping the Dark Lord's wand in the process. But it was too late. With all the deftness of a Seeker, Harry's fingers has found Voldemort's Greyvillian Responder. Without so much as a puff of smoke, the two of them disappeared. 

----

__

The baby lay before him, bawling its tiny lungs out. Lord Voldemort's red eyes glittered maliciously at him over the tiny infant's body. 

"There you go," he said, offering the delicate child to Severus. 

Snape gave it a distasteful stare. "What am I supposed to do with it?" he said angrily. 

Voldemort's manipulative smile widened. "You said you wanted to become a Death Eater… so eat." 

Snape blanched and backed away, revulsion creeping over his entire body. 

His master laughed derisively. "It's a Mudblood child. The thing is better off dead." 

"I don't want--" Snape began. 

"I don't care what you want," Voldemort smiled so that all of his teeth showed. The infant gurgled happily and began to play with the strings of Voldemort's cloak. The Dark Lord gave the tiny child a look of utter disgust. His face dripping with petty revulsion, he rounded on Severus. "You belong to me now." Without another word, Voldemort raised on of his razor sharp fingernails and thrust it into the infant's neck. The child's strangled cry was quickly silenced as a wave of blood filled its tiny throat, dripping out through its delicate lips. The baby's blood stained Voldemort's fingers pure red. It dripped onto the floor as the Dark Lord rubbed his hand across Snape's face, the infant's blood filling his pores, insinuating his body with the grossest of sins. 

He retched. 

Voldemort laughed, reaching into the cavity of the child's body he took out a small red orb. It quivered in his hands like a living thing. With a sickening shock, Snape realized that it was the baby's heart. Dropping the infant's corpse, Voldemort slipped the fragile heart into Snape's hands. 

He raised it to his lips. 

It was still beating.

It was still warm…

Snape gave a wild sob as he rushed to the door of his cell, clawing at it with his bare hands. His fingernails snapped and filled with slivers but he didn't care, didn't care as the blood ran down his hands, didn't care as his heart lodged itself in his throat, just as the baby's had done decades ago. He had to get out of here…

But there was no escape. The memory was already beginning to replay itself…

The door swung open. 

There, a figure was holding two dementors at wandpoint. When Snape's limp body fell out into the corridor, they glided away, leaving the figure to kneel down and take Severus's head in his arms. 

Snape broke down in sobs, gripping at the figure's shoulders as he was rocked back and forth, forth and back, trying to shake his head clear from the sins of the past. Sins that could never be washed out. 

"I threatened the dementors with a Patronus," the figure said, his voice cracking slightly. "They won't trouble us." 

Severus raised his head, bloody and stained with tears. As his eyes widened in recognition, Severus's parched lips formed one word. "Why?"

Sirius was here because he understood. 

He understood too well. 

"Come on," Sirius whispered, supporting Snape as he drew him to his feet. "Let's go home." 

----

He rubbed the hard metal of the gun across his cheek, shivering as the barrel dug into his flesh. All he had to do was move his little finger and he'd blow half his head into eternity. 

Smiling, he lowered the gun. There was work to be done yet. 

He saw the scene in front of him through a red haze. It was a whole world moving in an opposite reality, directionless and drifting. Silently, he watched as a motorcycle dropped out of the sky. 

Two people rode it. 

The first leapt off, his black hair waving slowly in the wind. The second collapsed into his arms, hardly able to stand. 

More figures rushed forward, surrounding the initial two, supporting the second figure and murmuring indecipherably to the first one, who replied. He didn't want the first man to reply anymore. 

He raised the gun. 

He moved his little finger. 

The gun fired.

The bullet flew through the air.

The tall figure fell. 

Sirius Black was dead before he hit the ground. 

He sunk to his knees, the red mist still swimming before his eyes. 

Why wasn't anything ever easy? Why did life have to be so damn hard? 

He needed

Escape. 

Romulus Lupin raised the pistol to his head and fired. 

----

"No!" 

Remus's voice echoed across the silent Hogwarts grounds as he fell to his knees. 

Sirius lay at his feet. His black blood ran through the baby grass. 

Halfway across the field, Romulus lay gazing up at the rising sun. His eyes didn't see a single thing. 

There was a hole through his head. 

There was a hole through Remus's heart. 

Sirius words echoed in his ears_. _

…You're there, wishing you could have done something better, wishing that somehow you can put it right. But you can't, because it's the past…

It was then that the Great Hall exploded. 

----

"Why?" Gabriel said abruptly, staring as Voldemort threw another futile curse towards the door again. 

"Why what?" the Dark Lord spat angrily, wrenching himself away for the unrelenting door to face Gabriel. 

"Why twenty years of absolute horror? Why two decades of holding the world in terror?" 

A bitter smile cut across Voldemort's pale feature like a scythe. "The world never gave me anything but terror." Gabriel said nothing, making eye contact with the Dark Lord for the first time. Those tiny red slits held nothing. They were vats of absolute nothingness, a mirror to Gabriel's own soul. "Do you know how I grew up, Lucifer?" Gabriel shook his head.

"I was in an orphanage. My Mudblood father was still alive. He threw my pregnant mother out onto the street upon finding she was a witch. They never married." Voldemort's voice sounded toneless and dead, purged of any emotion. "He left her to die." 

"So this is what it's all about," Gabriel said, unable to keep the raw malice from his tone. "Your father." 

"He abandoned me," Voldemort said mechanically. 

Gabriel's voice rose to a derisive laugh. "You hate Muggles because your Mudblood father left your mother on the street!" 

"Don't presume to question my motives, boy!" Voldemort's calm cracked, and his high voice rose into a shriek. "Don't mock what you don't understand!" 

Gabriel remembered his own childhood years, growing up a burden on his uncle, a man who flinched at the sight of him. A man who had never once directed a kind word at him… never once given any sign of love. "I understand more than you think," he said quietly. 

There was a long pause. "I never had a father," Voldemort said quietly, sinking into Pettigrew's easy chair. 

"Neither did I," Gabriel's hiss was dangerous, as he took a step towards the seated Dark Lord. 

A tiny smile crept across Voldemort's wan features. "I suppose that was my fault, but how could I not hate Sejanus Cox? Your mother was my favorite mistress long before he walked into her life." 

"What?" Gabriel stopped dead in his tracks, a freezing fear coming over him. 

Voldemort ran his pale tongue over his lips, as if savoring a taste. "Your mother was an insanely attractive young woman. She was…" he gave a small chuckle. "Magic. My very first Death Eater. It was your mother who came up with the finer parts of the order… the Dark Mark, eating our victims…" 

"What?" Gabriel repeated, the implication of Voldemort's words hitting him like a bolt in the chest. 

Slowly, Voldemort stood up. He reached out one spidery hand and ran it over the curve of Gabriel's throat. "You look so like her," he purred, so close Gabriel could feel his breath on his neck. "Especially when you're angry." Voldemort traced his fingers up and down Gabriel's neck, his thumb lingering longingly in the hollow of his collarbone. "Your hair… your voice… your eyes. They say eyes are the windows to the soul." 

"Don't touch me," Gabriel hissed, wrenching himself from the musings of Voldemort's fingers. Revulsion crept over him like a great wave, as he raised his own hand to his throat, trying to wipe away all traces of the Dark Lord. 

Voldemort only laughed. "You can't escape me that easily, boy. I'm inside you. I'm inside of everyone," he hissed, tilting his head to one side in a purely reptilian motion. "Your mother tried to flee, but I wasn't about to give up my little Lucifer." 

Gabriel's hand tightened around his own neck, his fingernails digging into the soft flesh like daggers. Slowly he took a step backwards, transfixed by the Dark Lord's mocking smile. "No…" 

"Yes," Voldemort purred, taking another step forwards. He was riding Gabriel's terror like a favorite stallion. "In the end Liv, my Lucifer, turned on me. She loved Cox," he spat the word like a curse. "Or so she said. That idiot Alastor Moody, who you most kindly disposed of, had arrested your father as Lucifer, and she began to feel pangs of a conscience that had remained silent during twenty-two cold blooded murders. She had the idiot idea of turning herself in." Voldemort's eyes gave a flicker of emotion as his voice lowered in anger. "Naturally this was something I could not allow. I killed her. I framed your father for the murder," a smile twisted itself around his ravaged face. "Appropriate," Voldemort hissed, tilting his face heavenward. "Appropriate," he repeated in a whisper as the smile dropped off of his face and a shiver racked his pallid frame. 

Gabriel didn't speak. 

He couldn't even think. 

His mouth hung open slightly as his father reached out and gripped his hand. "Your entire life has been a lie, hasn't it?" the Dark Lord hissed. "Let me fill the void, boy. Belong to me." He squeezed Gabriel's blackened hand so hard that the wound reopened, oozing black blood all over Voldemort's deathly pale fingers. The Dark Lord didn't even flinch. "How your father would roll over in his grave to see his son in the service of Lord Voldemort," Voldemort's face held a disjointed smile as he let loose an equally unstable laugh. 

"He's fifteen years dead," Gabriel whispered, pulling himself out of Voldemort's grip, sensing the other man's eyes lingering upon his throat. 

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you felt pity for that filthy Mudblood-lover," Voldemort hissed, his voice a low rumble. 

"He…" Gabriel fixed his gaze on Voldemort, the lie feeling more right than the truth. "He is my father." 

"I'm your father now," Voldemort said, a feral glitter in his red eyes. "You will feel no pity for that fool!" 

It was then that Gabriel cracked. 

The icy wall erected the night before, the bulwark that had aged him twenty-four centuries in a mere day, collapsed before his eyes-- shattering all over his heart, and like splinters of glass rending its surface, causing him to cry out in pain, fear, anguish. He gripped the side of Pettigrew's bed, his fingers grappling at the post and grinding into the wood. He felt the pain in his fingers, the hurt inside his heart and the gaping hole torn in his psyche by Lord Voldemort. 

He felt it all. 

His mother was a serial killer. 

His father was a cannibal. 

He was little better than either of them. 

Gabriel, the archangel. 

Born of darkness.

He couldn't stop laughing. "Fuck you," he spat, his fingers tearing a hole out of Pettigrew's bedpost. "Fuck you!" 

Crack! Voldemort's hand was across his face, raising a trail of brilliant red welts where his fingers had scathed Gabriel's skin. Gabriel only laughed harder as the pain exploded through him. 

He could feel it. 

He could feel. 

"Foolish boy!" Voldemort shrieked, gripping one of Pettigrew's self help books and throwing it across the room as Gabriel, who dodged it easily, falling to the floor in a crouch. He smiled as the rough cobblestone scathed at his wounded hand causing a new wave of pain to shoot through his body. After apathy, pain is a sweet sedative.

"How dare you defy me so!" Voldemort spat, pulling his wand from his cloak. "_Crucio_!" 

Gabriel easily rolled out of the curse's way. He saw see it hit the floor and burst into a shower of red sparks. All he could do was marvel in its beauty. As Gabriel tried to rise to his feet, something sharp slipped across the flat of his palm. Through the the fresh wave of pain and new trickle of blood, Gabriel recognized it as Potter's penknife that Harry had dropped after promptly jamming it into his hand. Feeling the Dark Lord's preying eyes upon him, he furtively slipped the knife up his sleeve. 

"I may not be able to splinter Malfoy's wards," Voldemort hissed, raising his wand. "But I can break you, Cox." His voice was a few degrees below a hiss, and with every breath it tightened the tourniquet fixed upon Gabriel's bleeding heart. "_Stupefy_!" Gabriel dodged the shot of purple light, watching as the curse blew a gaping hole in the stone walls of the room. Bits of rock flew across Voldemort's cell like shrapnel, embedding themselves into the ruins of the furniture. 

A haphazard plan was forming itself in Gabriel's mind. "You've lost!" He called out, suddenly leaping onto the four poster bed, dodging as Voldemort slashed at the curtains with a fresh curse. He still cradled the penknife between his fingers. "Admit it, you were mistaken--" 

"I don't make mistakes!" Voldemort shrieked irrationally, his white fingers gripping his wand even harder. 

"What the hell are you talking about?" Gabriel jerked aside the ruined bed curtain so he could meet Voldemort's gaze. "You've killed just about a thousand people. How is there any perfection in that?" 

"They were Mudbloods," Voldemort's shrill voice was full of scorn, his wand still pointed directly at Gabriel. "They did not deserve to live." 

"You're a Mudblood!" Gabriel spat, hate filling him like a tsunami. 

"I am no--" 

Gabriel cut him off, leaping off of the bed and landing on the cobblestones. He reached out and gripped Voldemort by the shoulders, ignoring the welts that arose on his hands as they touched the Dark Lord's flesh. "You're a man, _my lord_," he added with a touch of malice. 

"I… I am not a man," the Dark Lord said quietly, stumbling over his words. 

"Then why do you hate your father?" Gabriel whispered, sidling up next to Voldemort and pulling back the other man's hood, exposing his bald white pate for the first time. "Why did you kill all of those people? Why do you love my mother? Why are you lonely now?" 

"I'm not--" Voldemort began, suddenly breaking off. 

"Yes, you are lonely," Gabriel said quietly, running his hand up the side of the other man's face. 

Voldemort's voice wavered hesitantly. "All I ever wanted was a father." 

"Me too," Gabriel whispered as the other man gripped him hard about the shoulders. "Me too." 

Gently, he reached around his father until he had him in a tight embrace. He felt the first tears slide down the side of his face. 

Now was not the time for crying. 

Not yet. 

Closing his eyes, Gabriel slid the knife into Voldemort's back. 

His father gave a strangled cry halfway between a gasp and a sob. 

Gabriel broke, and for the first time since Hilly's lab, the tears ran freely down his face. 

His father's fingers tightened around Gabriel's shoulders, rending deep into his flesh. Riddle's pale white lips were red with blood. The older man turned his eyes to meet Gabriel's own. "Like father, like son," he gasped, retching up a fresh wave of blood. 

"I'm so sorry," Gabriel whispered. 

So died Tom Marvolo Riddle. 

The embodiment of all of the hate, fear, and desperation that had haunted the wizarding world for a quarter of a century was finally dead. His passing was mourned by one alone. 

After what seemed an eternity of crying and bleeding and healing, Gabriel laid his father down upon the cobblestones. Gently running his fingers over the dead man's face, Gabriel closed those red snake eyes for the last time. 

He reached down to his father hands, pulling his wand from those fingers before they stiffened with death. Gabriel turned the tiny stick over and over in his hands, marveling at the fragment of wood that had caused to much death and destruction. This little twig had torn countless families asunder, including his own. This wand had changed history and corrupted one man, lying one before him, released only in death. A smile that could only be described as relived graced his father's lips. 

Gabriel gripped the slender stick between his two fingers and pulled. It snapped without hardly any resistance, letting loose a shower of green and silver sparks. Gabriel smiled. Green and silver were Slytherin's colors.

Then something tremendous happened. From the two fragments of his father's wand one quavering note emerged. It began soft; rising in a crescendo. Lingering. Haunting. Healing. And then, as quickly as it had come, the note died away into nothingness. 

Gabriel had never before heard Phoenix's song, but it was unmistakable. Slowly, he got to his feet, dropping the fragments of his father's wand next to the corpse. 

He walked out of the door. He had his whole life ahead of him. 

----

Harry almost fell over as his feet hit cobblestones with a resounding clatter. Lucius Malfoy was cursing up a storm, rocking back and forth as he gripped his bleeding knee. Apparently Malfoy had knocked it upon the great table that stretched just to their side, running the length of the hall in which they were standing. Jerking his head up in surprise, Harry's jaw dropped. They were crouched in Hogwart's great hall, knuckled down in the space between the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables. 

Slowly, in shock he reached out, brushing the side of the Slytherin table. The hard oak remained solid and real. This was not a dream. 

But Harry didn't have the time to marvel at his situation any longer, for an acid blue curse whipped past his left ear, searing a ragged hole through the air. Harry threw himself down against the Slytherin table, once again assured of its reality as the hard wood knocked the wind out of him. 

Malfoy just smirked and raised his wand for another go. He was on the rampage. 

Biting his lip Harry dove under the Slytherin table and began to crawl. He could see Malfoy's patent leather boots following him under the edge of the green and silver table runner. He was rapidly approaching the end of the table, a place where his protection would end and he would have to step out into the openness of the hall, where certain death awaited him. His mind remained a blank, and try as he might, he couldn't even begin to think of any clever plans. All he could hear was Voldemort's mocking words, echoing through his panicked brain: "_You fled from me Potter, because you are a coward…"_

Harry felt the sudden urge to cry. Voldemort was right. He was a little boy, and in far too deep, playing games he hardly even understood. His heart was beating in his chest like a hummingbird on crack while his mind wallowed in the depths of fear. He stopped crawling, and simply crouched under the table, clenching his fists against the cold stone. The silver scar on his palm glinted maliciously up at him. A half smile, mocking his sacrifice. It had all been in vain. 

"You can't win, Potter," he heard Malfoy hiss from far above him. "Why don't you come out and let me quietly kill you? Believe me, my boy, it's all in your best interest." 

Harry said nothing, still paralyzed, crouched between indecision and terror. 

"Have you ever read the words of Grindelwald?" Malfoy's sudden change of topic, caused Harry to jerk his head up in surprise, knocking it against the underside of the Slytherin table and causing an overwhelming pain to fill the space between his temples. He took Harry's silence as a negative. "Mr. Grindelwald brings up some very interesting points about life, one which I think, applies especially well to your case, my boy." Malfoy paused for dramatic silence, and Harry could hear him inhale through clenched teeth, the air making a whistling noise over his pursed lips. "Mr. Grindelwald states that because of genetic inferiority, the Muggle-born or half-blood wizard doesn't deserve to live. They're little better than speaking apes. Mr. Grindelwald calls for complete Mudblood extermination, for their own good of course. So view me as a benefactor Harry, I'm only trying to help." 

"Like hell you are!" Harry surprised even himself as he leapt out behind the Slytherin table, jerking off the green and sliver cloth that was covering it in the process. The snake embroidered on it gave a dangerous hiss as the table runner fell to the floor in a heap. Harry's heart was thumping. He couldn't believe what he had just done, but Malfoy's words had awakened an anger in him that he hadn't before believed existed. He could take any insult to himself, even sometimes agree with it, but Malfoy's cut at Muggle-born wizards had been too much. Dean, Hermione, even his mother had fallen into that category. They were people nearest and dearest to his heart, people that Malfoy, with his designer dress robes and snotty smirk, couldn't even begin to equal.

Then Harry's heart fell. Across Malfoy's patrician face, was a dangerous smile. He leveled his wand…

__

ZIP! Another curse whizzed toward Harry, but he ducked down to the cobblestones just in time. Instead, the spell hit the Hufflepuff banner, causing it to burst into violent purple flames. The great embroidered badger gave a desperate cry of pain and terror as he was consumed by Malfoy's spell. 

Harry shuddered. The badger's violent death was only a foreshadowing of what was in store for him. Once again, he bit his lip so hard that it bled. Harry had given up his hope, happiness, humanity, to save wizards from the horrible fate that awaited them if dark magic and bigotry held the reins of power. He'd be damned if one man, one rich foppish racist, would cause all of his sacrifices to be in vain. 

Leaping to his feet, Harry vaulted over the Slytherin table, towards Malfoy, who was leaning against the Gryffindor banner with a very smug smirk on his face. "Going to face me, Potter?" he sneered, twirling the two wands between his fingers. "Oh, my boy, I'm trembling, I'm trembling…" he laughed at his own mockery. "_Avada Kedavra_!" Malfoy cried, raising both Harry's wand and his own. The curses hit the floor inches from Harry's feet, blasting two potholes each the size of Hagrid's head. Harry stumbled backwards, the impact jarring him. 

"Next time, I won't miss!" Malfoy hissed, shaking his blonde hair from his eyes. Harry said nothing in retort, his mind was blank of any witty or scathing replies. Only a raw determination kept him going, a guttural need to know that all of his struggles would not be in vain. 

"_Impedimenta_!" Malfoy's curse hit Harry full in the chest, causing him to stagger backwards and fall into a nearby suit of armor, which gave a disgruntled cry as it fell to pieces. 

His heart thumping in his chest, his eyes on nothing but Malfoy's wand, Harry grabbed the nearest thing to him, the armor's old plate metal shin guard, and threw it hard at Malfoy. All of Harry's Quidditch training had not been in vain. The piece of armor flew through the air like a boomerang and struck Malfoy in the abdomen. The dark wizard gave a strangled wail of pain, fell to his knees and gripped the cobblestones. Harry's wand flew out of the man's hand, skittering across the stone floor to land at his feet. 

Harry picked it up, running the smooth wood between his fingers. It had never felt more welcome in his life. 

A sudden absence of any curses made Harry turn and look at Malfoy. He was curled up on the floor in a fetal position, black blood bubbling from his open mouth. Harry felt like he might be sick as Malfoy raised himself up onto his trembling arms. He had a giant slash across his middle where the serrated edge of the plate metal cut him. Gazing at the wound in morbid fascination, Harry saw a glint of white that could only be Malfoy's spine. He was looking at a dead man. 

Malfoy knew this also. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a bubble of blood came forth. Slowly, he tried again. "You've… killed me, Potter," he rasped, red fluid trickling down his chin with every word. "I won't go… alone." Summoning every ounce of strength in his dying body, Malfoy lifted his wand, pointing it at the rafters. "_Incendio_!" 

The roof instantly burst into flame. Harry could hear the screams of people outside of the hall and he raced towards the door, only to find it bolted. Frantic pounding with his fists could do nothing, and the walls were catching on fire. With a giant roar, Gryffindor's lion banner burst into flame. Panicked, Harry ran towards Malfoy's body, skidding on a piece of plate armor in the process. He fell flat on his face, rolling out of the way as a flaming rafter fell down upon him. An incredible agony took a hold of him as he rolled across the floor, trying to suppress the fire eating away at his flesh. But it was impossible, everywhere there was flame. He was trapped in his own pyre. Somewhere along the line, his glasses fell off, leaving the world in a blur of orange and red and… silver?

A giant rush of hope leaped in Harry's throat. He ran forward, his cloak still smoldering. Frantically, he managed to pull off his flaming robes as he leapt forward and caught Malfoy's Greyvillian responder in his hands. 

The world dissolved. 

----

The great hall was a ruin. 

A thick blanket of white ash covered the blackened remains of tables, chairs, and banners. Remus pushed his way through the crowd of students, faculty, and ghosts, all in their nightcaps, expressions of equal bewilderment and horror on every face. 

Dumbledore was already at the forefront of the crowd, supporting a weeping Minerva McGonagall on his right arm. His blue eyes were twinged with… something. Fear, worry, anger… it had all muddled together into one cohesive glance of pain. 

For a long time, no one said anything. There was nothing to say 

Then a glint of silver caught Remus's eye. Walking forward, he picked pair of glasses from the rubble. The crowd held their breath. "Harry…" he began, choking on his words. "Harry was here." 

He turned to Dumbledore, who said nothing. 

"Harry was here," he repeated. "Harry is now… there!" Remus gestured wildly at the smoldering rubble. "Harry is… dead--"

Sobs cut him off. Hermione Granger was openly crying on the shoulder of Ron Weasley. Ron had a shocked expression on his face as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. 

Still, Dumbledore remained silent. 

Remus shook his head, all the mindless death, murder, and destruction of the past few days coming to a head and bursting from his lips. "Is it worth it?" he yelled, rounding on the old man. "They're dead! All of them: Romulus, Harry, Sirius--" he broke off, his voice cracking. "All for your stupid war! Does it matter? Does it really matter?" He sunk to his knees in the ashes, Harry's broken glasses dangling limply from his hand. Someone ran out to comfort him but he pushed them away, turning again to Dumbledore. "He was a child!" Remus yelled. "They are all children!" He gestured at the shocked crowd of students. "He had so much to give, so much to.. he didn't deserve this… didn't ask for it, and he sacrificed everything for you! You and your goddamn ideals!" Remus broke off again, running his fingers listlessly through the ashes. "You spoke of them once, honor, love, freedom. Now you have your chance to make the world anew. Are your ideals worth the life of one innocent boy, Albus?" There was a silence in the burned hall. "Make me believe they are," he whispered, tossing the broken glasses at Dumbledore's feet. "Make _us_ believe they are." 

Ever so slowly, Dumbledore bent down and picked up Harry's glasses. He ran one gnarled finger over the lens, wiping it free of soot. 

----

Viktor Krum became the driving force behind the new wizarding world, instituting ground-breaking reforms to raise it truly out of the ashes. He was elected the youngest Minister of Magic in Bulgarian history. 

Lucius Malfoy's body was never found. 

His son Draco grew up and squandered the entire family fortune by engaging in several shady business ventures. He never spoke out in favor of pureblood supremacy, though. 

Hermione Granger became an award-winning author and mother of four. She still meets her lifelong friend Ron once a year to lay flowers in the ruins of Hogwarts great hall. 

To this day, it has never been rebuilt, standing as a tribute to those who had made the choice between what was good and what was easy. 

Severus Snape never fully recovered Azkaban, though he returned to his teaching post at Hogwarts. Late at night, he can be found roaming the corridors of the old castle, mumbling to himself and weeping for something he has never really lost.

Remus Lupin would decide to abandon his memories. Along with Vix Su, he would spin a globe, trying to randomly choose a place to start life anew. Ironically, the globe stopped on Morocco, the modern day name of the Roman province of Numidia. 

They would open a restaurant there. Its name is Padfoot's. 

Albus Dumbledore would remain headmaster of the Hogwarts school until his death. In his last years, he would continue to promote Muggle tolerance and unity between the many magical races. Upon his death, Minerva McGonagall took up the running of the school. When she was cleaning out Dumbledore's office, shortly after he passed away, McGonagall happened upon an old book, paperback and dog-eared. It was written by a teenage Muggle who had been exterminated in a factory that manufactured death. Her name was Anne Frank and she died in the greatest genocide of modern history, known among Muggles as the Holocaust. When McGonagall opened the book, and she did very carefully, as its pages were very old and yellowed, she came across a single page marked by one of Fawkes's feathers, brilliant and red, flaming forever. On that page, Dumbledore had underlined a single quote. It read: _In spite of everything, I truly believe that all people are good at heart._

----

Harry opened his eyes. 

He closed them again. 

Then opened them. With a sickening shock, he realized he wasn't wearing his glasses. The world swam in front of him like a wet watercolor. There was a vague blue shape, bobbing up and down inconsistently, which he supposed must be the ocean. Behind him were several pink blobs, running around and squeaking at random intervals. Harry was rather glad he couldn't discern what they were. Slowly he lifted up his hand, and saw the vague gray shape that he held within his grasp. His vision was nowhere near articulate enough to discern the moving colors and shapes weaving within it, but he knew what it was. Malfoy's Greyvillian Responder. All of the hate, pain, and death he had experience since he had first traveled through time came to a head. He saw Anan's village, burned to the ground, he remembered Sirius's face, contorted with loathing as he looked upon Romulus, but the most vivid memory of all was Malfoy, doubled over by his death blow. A blow Harry had given him… Harry shook his head, trying to clear away the awful memories. Instinctively, his fingers tightened around the Greyvillian Responder. Nothing good had ever come of it. On a wave of impulse, he grit his teeth and threw it into the sea. The Responder hit the waves with a silvery splash and then submerged, lost forever in the watery depths.

"What did you do that for?" Harry turned around, a blurry shape about his height stood in front of him, radiating indigence. Whether it was girl or boy, man or wombat, his eyes were so bad he had no way of telling. 

"I… I'm sorry," Harry said quietly, rubbing his temples. "I can't see all that well--" 

"Here," the figure said, their voice softening. "_Occulus_!" 

Harry felt a flash of blinding light wash over his eyes and he blinked rapidly. When his vision cleared he found himself faced with a rather sunburnt girl a few years younger that he was, covered head to toe in muck, chewing on the brunt end of her wand as if it were hay. But it wasn't the girl that had set him off guard. Malfoy's responder must have been set on random, for he had been catapulted into a time beyond his wildest imaginations. He was on the edge of a rocky coastline, with various patches of scrub growing in the cracks. The vague pink shapes he had seen earlier, snuffling amidst the grass turned out now to be pigs, munching on everything from the grass, to the rocks, to the girl's skirt. 

"Where… where am I?" Harry stammered rather abruptly. 

"Hello to you too," she smirked, giving her wand a good gnaw. It let out a wild shower of blue and silver sparks in retaliation. "This is Scotland. You're a Brit, I can tell from your accent. My father says Brits are dirty cheating liars." 

"Really?" Harry muttered, rubbing his head. Still smarting from the heat of Malfoy's blaze, the little girls' torrent seemed all to much to take in. He wanted Ron, Hermione, Sirius, arms in which he could lay down and unabashedly cry. But those seemed denied to him forever now, sunken beneath the Scottish sea with Malfoy's Greyvillian Responder. "What year is it?" Harry said quietly, turning his gaze from the future and to the girl at his side. 

"What?" She gave a him a quizzical look. "How thick are you? Do they have a different calendar in England?" Then she added, with a gleam of mischief in her eye, "Do you really eat babies for dinner down there?" 

"No," Harry grit his teeth, beginning to feel annoyed. "No we don't eat babies and yes, we do use the same calendar. I've just been… away for a while." 

"Well you're by the far the most interesting thing that's ever happened to me so I think I'll tell you," she said, scratching her muddy scalp. "Its 1001 Anno Domini. July 31, 1001 if you want me to be exact." 

His birthday. Harry almost smiled, Dumbledore hadn't been wrong about the Responders being sentient. They had their own sense of ironic humor. 

"I'm a pig farmer," the little girl was blathering. "My father's a wizard, he owns a big farm over that hill," she pointed to a hill on the nearby moor. "But he makes me take care of the pigs. I don't care, I get to get a dirty as I want, but it gets boring sometimes. All the people I meet are boring, except for you. You're the most--" 

Harry cut her off, running a sooty hand through his coal black hair. "How did you cure my eyes? Did you go to school? We didn't learn healing charms until the fourth year and you don't look much older than ten." 

"I'm twelve," the girl gave him an extremely condescending look. "My father taught me the charm. That's how everyone learns. There is no _school_ to learn magic, but since you're British, I'll assume you're stupid and don't know anything about anything." 

"Look," Harry held up a hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I just wanted to know." 

She bit her lip and gave him an appraising look. "Alright then. A school for magic actually wouldn't be that bad of an idea. No one really knows a lot of charms, we just go by what our parents know and they go by what their parents know and they go by what their--" 

"Yeah, I get the idea," Harry said, sinking onto a large rock beside the pig girl. 

"A school needs a name," she continued, still chewing at her wand. 

"Oxford?" Harry ventured, hardly listening to her. 

"No!" she gave him a look of extreme disgust. "Who would go to a school with a name like that? Everyone hates oxen. Pigs are much better," she gave one of her hogs an affectionate pat on the head. 

"Well, you don't have to name the school after an animal…" Harry began. 

"I like pigs." she said firmly, the glare in here eyes daring Harry to disagree. "Boarhaven… Snoutscratch… Pigpimples…"

"Hogwarts," Harry said quietly, his heart stopping. 

"Hogwarts," her eyes lit up. "It does have a certain ring to it, doesn't it?" 

"It does indeed," Harry said quietly, trying to control the frantic beating of his heart. Unbidden, Dumbledore's words rang in his ears. "_…when the Responder is put on random, it places you where it thinks you can do the most good. It has all of time to choose from…"_

"My name is Rowena Ravenclaw," the girl said brightly, extending her mucky hand. "What's yours?" 

Harry didn't answer her for a while, turning his eyes to the sea. Images of Ron, Sirius, Hermione, flashed by his eyes, people and places more dear to his heart than his own soul. People and places he'd have to wait a whole lifetime to see again. But it wasn't his place to look back. The Responder has given him a second chance. He had his whole life ahead of him, and there was work to be done. Choices were never easy, Harry could only hope he had done what was right. Slowly, he looked up from the waves, rolling back and forth onto the beach, just as they had done since the beginning of time. His eyes then wandered to the sun, rising just above the water's horizon, its beams of light kissing the Scottish moor. "You can call me Godric," Harry said quietly, feeling something lodged in his throat. "Godric Gryffindor." 

He wanted Ron. Sirius. Hermione. Even Draco's face would be a welcome reprieve. But all of that was closed to him now. Sometimes all you could do was move on.

Sometimes all you could do was let the sun rise anew. A phoenix ascending, born from the ashes. 

----

__

finite incantatem. 

__


End file.
